Size / / /
It is the Martian with black, child-like eyes
landing a spaceship in my driveway
who will save me. Long, slim limbs,
nodding head, wordless and listening,
the way the hand tugs me from the bedclothes.
I feel only the cool of smooth skin—
flawless and scented, part apple-orchard,
part ozone. Yes: there’s radiation
in outer-space, but bless this Martian
who straps me in, the Midwestern winter
gone at a push of a button, the wormholes
we propel through, the flicker of lights,
the Martian’s soft gaze over the operating table
as everything inside me is opened up and touched.
Publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from John Devenny. (Thanks, John!) To find out more about our funding model, or donate to the magazine, see the Support Us page.