Spacewoman

Her soul slipped into a spacesuit of patched-up hopes.
She looked into the vacuum and muttered,
“If light-years can be measured in teacups,
I’d be drinking my way up into the stars.”
But her dreams are nebulae, or even galaxies, away
and no amount of caffeine can bring her there.

Her heart nestled in a bed of sewn-together prayers.
She closed her eyes and whispered,
“If light-years can be measured in keystrokes,
I’d be writing my way up into the stars.”
But Words, no matter how strong,
may need more fuel from her to bring her there.

Her heart nestled in a bed of sewn-together prayers.
She closed her eyes and whispered,
“If light-years can be measured in keystrokes,
I’d be writing my way up into the stars.”
But Words, no matter how strong,
may need more fuel from her to bring her there.

Her tears were kept nowhere; they clouded her eyes.
She blinked them away and said,
“If light-years can be measured in saltwater,
would the nights I spent crying not be enough?”
The Universe went on spinning,
trying to ignore her despair.

Perhaps light-years can be measured
in how wide you can stretch
your heart’s threshold for pain;
in how many lash beatings
your soul can take
or in how many buckets of tears
you can keep at bay.

She knows she doesn’t know.
She’s more than a sightless Spacewalker
but the starshine from faraway, perhaps, is enough
for her to walk blindly, for a while…

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