by Keith Mark Gaboury
Do you go by Miss or Mrs?
If we become cordial, will you take Hey Outer?
Your cartilage must be a dead relic
after 14 billion cycles
of rising from your gas bed
and trekking to that steel-floor factory
where you slavishly
pipe the unity of gravity into our universe.
Do you dare put words
to the thought of finding freedom
on an open range outpost
perfect for drinking
a calcium-punch of alien milk.
Hey Outer, how do you know
Escape will be your friend?
The Virgo Supercluster
branches across the hem of your skirt,
black holes within the fabric.
What’s a thousand throbs of stress
to an infinity of pastoral peace?
For now, this is your life
at another workweek’s end:
snake home to the domesticity
of fried chicken
washed down with a subatomic brew,
bubbles bullying down
your throat’s dark star alley
when your mother calls
to wish you a happy birthday. She sings
into the phone as you begin to cry.