The popcorn ceiling could be cotton candy clouds 
if you let it, 
if you imagine what life could be 
out from under your box, in the light of Jupiter 
when he winks at you from behind Luna’s skirt, 
like a little boy too scared to show his face, 
but when he does 
you can see how he’s grown, 
towering over his mother, yet still so shy. 
 
Sometimes all you can do 
is beat your breasts 
and howl at Luna 
to get out of his way 
and let him shine, push him forward, 
 
let you live fully you 
in defiance of outer space funhouse mirrors. 
Lick the cotton candy far above your head 
and soar among satellites as your own planet.