our whole world is a third world,

a step-sister left behind in the galaxy’s

cinderella story.
ugly cousin earth spinning on her heel,

raging at the cosmos’ beauty.
defective pieces of swept-up stardust

from factories that abuse labouring angels, we

offal from a flourishing inter-galactic trade, we

who want nothing more than to be saved

and nothing saved but us.
our unwatched backs, our shaken wombs, we

like all rejects, spill mother’s secrets

to anyone who listens.
anyone holding out his arms,

anyone who promises toffee and lies

about how nice we look.
mesmerized by their metal and muscle, we

ask strangers to swing an axe

into the sun’s gut.

we watch.
at night, we whisper to each other – we

were not made weak and small for nothing, we

can slide into mother’s cracked skin and hide

inside her burn-red belly until it’s over, we

are fated to drink the sap in her marrow, we

can grow a tangle of nerves and veins until

each one is inside each one

and no one can live without killing

and no one can kill without dying.
thus, we can survive.
flowers in armpits, we fantasize

about another galaxy.

no factories, no fence-sitting angels

with halos of barbed wire.

no greater muscle than ours.
we pour yellow and black and red earth

on our eyes until the dream is solid

as earth’s bones.
we cry for this place,

tucked behind the knees of the galaxy,

gurgling in the crook of the sun’s elbow,

a place scorched clean. in her sleep

our planet grinds her teeth.