How Straight White Men Write Space Operas

When we’ve terraformed the moon,
it will be an ice rink. No,

a prison. No, a hotel and casino.
The women? Beautiful

and scarce, with long legs
like polished tables. Some will be

lady robots with robot boobs and shiny
empty dispositions.

The men will have buzz cuts
and moral dilemmas. Their violence

will be justified. Nearly
any wound will be treatable.

We’ve still got to give them a show.
Some blood. In low gravity, bright

globules afloat,
coagulating in the air.

On Earth will be sterile
plazas, silver zeppelins, imperious

edifices, piss-tunnel markets, off-
brand implants, holographic

brothels—that future kitsch. Mars,
a red bauble, will dangle

and wink. Like it wants us
to take it. Don’t mind if

we do. This is called progress.
And when we’ve drafted and signed

world peace treaties,
then we will melt our weapons

into bigger weapons
and launch them at aliens. They

will have come to invade us, betentacled
bastards. The cream of us, though,

will sleep dreamlessly
through this, snug in our cryotanks,

outstripping light. And centuries
later, stumbling from spaceships, dazzled

by some other sun
we will not have forgotten

our tricks. This new world, too,
will disburse its deep minerals.

We will chisel our faces
into its rock. We will christen

its wild lonely places
with our pronounceable names.

Mirror Mother

She says, look.
The world is ending.
The bridges are unbuilding themselves.


He was enough; enough for this life, this climate, this iceless hell. You must be big, to blubber yourself against change.

Blood Type Personality Theory

Beside the nation, there is the / Body.
Beyond the / Border, there is a / Body of water.
Besides the / Blood, there is the heart / Beating.