Where man cannot go, he sends women.

She acts as his vessel, empty and painted

What work has been put into crafting this woman

How men have spent hours perfecting her metals

The curve of aluminum honeycomb crisp

The brazed stainless steel wrapped so perfectly tight

And let’s not forget of man’s most vital detail

Once she is made, he embosses his name

His name on the module, his name in the cabin

His name on the hatch, on her legs, on the engine

His name in the newspaper, sent to the station

Her name on the papers, his name sent to Houston

How perfectly, beautifully barren she is

She contains controls but can’t do it herself

The boy she gives birth to, the men in her berth

The man she is named for, determine her worth

She makes it to Mars, she scrapes by the Sun

She does this herself, we credit her son

Is she not, comparably, clearly a mother?

For doesn’t she keep him, for doesn’t she smother?

And doesn’t he use her? And he doesn’t care?

And doesn’t she rust in the sea, in the air?

Does she not fulfill him? Is that not her job?

Is she not a ghost for him? Does she not sob?

When she’s left behind, because that was the plan

What do we call it? One small step for man.