by Brocken Inaglory via Wikimedia Commons
America went to the moon.
the Soviet Union went to hell,
the closest name we could find
for Venus, Earth’s twin
that never said no
to the sky and day,
so bright they named the devil after her
body that doesn’t know
how to fold,
only stiffen until it boils.
Where affection is honored in mountains,
craters; lovers’ names spelled in bismuth snow.
And the Soviet Union sent a probe
the length of a broom handle
to greet her, held together with sugar,
like our intentions
could be a candied-coated,
our banishment licked clean
giving us the gardens
that never existed.
Instead, she took our steel
in her sulfuric hands,
(it never even hit the ground),
and crowned herself
in her sister’s peregrine heart.
Ashely Adams is an MFA candidate in nonfiction at the University of South Florida. Her work has appeared in Heavy Feather Review, Fourth River, Permafrost, OCCULUM, Luna Luna Magazine and others. She really likes space.