My mother’s breasts were astronauts
drawn up close and high
in a latex matrix of Playtex warp and weft.
They manufactured the moon suits
(Playtex, not my mother’s breasts)
to swaddle men against silent death.
Twenty-one layers of failsafe stitching—
made vacuum-tight by hand
under the brief
that space is equilibrium.
No blood or breath
or saliva out there;
given the chance
the void takes its share.
I’m told I screamed each time
at their smothering press
and just like those gods of Apollo
had to be fed powdered milk.