My mother came of age in an America
fixated on the sky,
and she had been facing upwards
well before Armstrong found his footing.
You see,

my mother was made for math
and between triple-checked equations
and a scorn for gravity,
her fingers have scraped the sky—

I was born after.

after my mother’s neck ached
from watching men rise,

and her voice grew hoarse
from being spoken over and keeping quiet—

after the moondust settled,
and it was a man’s footprint left behind.

At 6 pounds and 11 ounces,
she thought I deserved all the stars
in the sky,

but thought nothing of whether she did too.

I was the third time she saw the universe expand—
the moon landing, my sister and me—
each sublime and cataclysmic.

I was born two weeks too early

and two months
before my mother’s department
and job disappeared.

You see,
my mother and I
learned to walk tall
together,
and speak up

and I am still practicing to this day
keeping my back straight