Venus
My daughter-never-born is throwing snow.
She’s dropping crystals
from clouds of sulfuric acid.
They glisten like knives, swirl
in the solar winds. Each flake hovers
over the ground before disappearing
into vapor. She smirks at her trickery,
conjuring something
that changes form so quickly.
The volcanic plains
are dry, oceans long gone.
Water’s hydrogen untangled
itself from oxygen, was sucked
into space. A planet
needs a magnetic field to support life.
A daughter needs an atmosphere
cool enough to breathe, not one
hot enough to melt lead. A daughter
needs to move from mirage
to materiality to be named.