Ancient Aliens

While you’re Just doin’ weekend chores

with your boyfriend (or is it fiancé now?),

I’m gorging again on The History Channel,

trying to convince myself I might meet

someone at the gym if only I could levitate

from my sofa with the same ease and grace

Chinese Myths assigned to “flying dragons”

some Ph.D. (with A Flock of Seagulls haircut)

insists were aircraft awing naïve ancestors.

They just didn’t have a name for it.

I didn’t have a name for it either. The alien

sensation that descended that afternoon

your boyfriend—my long-time friend—

finally introduced his new beau. A hand-

shake charged like the jolt that same Ph.D.

suggests was not the lightning of Zeus

scalding humans from Mount Olympus

(perhaps for a vice like coveting?) but

a glowing beam, some otherworldly force

from some bird-thing landing from beyond.

The aliens suddenly all the men I believed

I had loved. Dwarfed now from the top

of a pyramid I couldn’t recall climbing.

Always falling short. Not enough. Not it.

Whatever it was.

I just never had a name for it. Until you

offered yours. And I was struck dumb,

a stargazing primitive willing to carve

your likeness into cavern walls, learn

your language, spend a whole lifetime

flattening the earth into a landing pad

in case you might visit again.


Reprinted courtesy of NYQ.
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