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.