The Space Race

Emotion Astronaut

Here, Look. I am carving a niche for myself.
Here is the Sikh sword, the miniature dagger
Here is the untrammelled space I’m mining
Here, look, this is my pathway, and I am carving
Through rock, through craters, to forge it.

And, it does not come without perspiration.
Mafia daughter, murderer’s daughter,
Daughter of gypsies, of cheats, a rogue, a
Conceited, fork-tongued, fluid son-of-a-bitch.
Gravity? Watch Her Work. Watch Her Rise.

I hear your legacy, for it is my own. You,
You passed me shame, and within the confines
Of those blood-red walls, I am carving my niche
Past prostitution, (for, is that not all that I was)?
And then further. Academia. A chink in the wall,

An untravelled brightness. Inheritance, see?
This cratered world? I claim it. Through hope,
And strength. My labour, new birth, new name.
And then…I slip beyond Sun, Mercury, Moon.
See her Fly. See her Soar. Watch her Shine.

Beyond your criminal confines. Father?
I disown you. Mother? I rejoice in your death.
I have a name. A place. A weight, beyond you.
See my title? The letters stretch on, and on,
Beyond your obituary. Beyond your legacy.
I am free. Gravity? watch this space; it’s mine.