she’s got a road map to Jupiter, with side quests
through Oz
and across the silvered back
of the looking glass.
she passes beyond—
into the empty spaces
where dragons roam—
between stars.
no expectations.
no eyes.
no wolves howling their
interpretation of who she is.
no little gods showering
her with motherhood—
just herself
halfway up Olympus.
just a road map torn into
seven thousand pieces.
just Jupiter,
captured in a bubble
and blown away.
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