Moons for Venus

Can I smother myself in the womb of Venus,
lone spin after Moons have abandoned her hands,
drifted out toward less intense planets,
choose to stay,
embrace the furnace,
sink into those sleepless faults,
further through smog and disturbing scent,
rush on toxins that numb the day,
paint alien birds almost ceaselessly
as life, of course, goes on on Earth?
Can I birth a new Moon-darling,
one only a Mother could love,
tether it to my trauma-frame as an anchor,
one that dances sweet geronimo
problem-free in our poison sky?