The Groundling

I’m no astronaut. I need the press
of gravitational pull, gravel-
scraped stripes on my knees, heels
of my hands, black with bubbled blood,
embedded dirt. I crave the clean
sting of alcohol, the jangle of a knock
to the head, the tang of tongue-
probed skin ragged where my teeth
pierced my lip
upon impact.

Satellite. Planet. Grave.

It’s not pretty, but this blue bruise
is nothing less than fulsome proof
of puncture, ill-fated flight. You might
think every insect wishes for wings,
but if I could not strain against
the tether tied tightly to
my heart’s umbilicus, acquiesce
to the taut snap of recoil, there
would be nothing left
for me to want.