at age twelve
dad took me to
the space museum

i toppled planets
i stacked three feet high
my dad squinted and 
pulled his fingers
into a circle and
looked through–
like a captain
eyeing his 
telescopic piece–
“a meter,” he said
before they fell
pluto hitting his
newly-waxed
shoes

when we stopped
at the gift shop
i pointed at the 
astronaut ice cream–
when he came 
from the register
i pulled at the 
metallic wrapping
it did not
give way–
he pulled out
his swiss army
knife and ran a
cut through its 
crinkling packaging

strawberry-flavored
dry and brittle
it was nothing
like ice cream
on Earth

(except it was
on Earth)

he never imagined
that his curious girl

fifteen years later
would be squeezed
into metal packaging
stubborn and 
resisting tearing–
tough and obnoxious
only a laceration
from a passing 
micrometeorite
released the

dry and brittle
flesh within