By Maya Jewell Zeller
Featured Image: Clouds and Sunset, Jamaica by Frederic Edwin Church 1865
Her skin was too human too often,
hands too happy to touch the splintered
door of a barn, too easily moved toward
a nettle, too ready to cover her mouth
when she gasped in joy, so she let
the aliens take her when they came.
They moved like question marks toward her
and she dropped the garden tools
to watch their wavy willow-like eyes, slits
of smoke their mouths flung out in nets.
They didn’t make a sound. Instead they held
signs with shimmery words to tell
what they wanted. On board,
they began to teach her restraint,
offering pudding then peeling the lid
to reveal the round torsos of bugs.
She wanted to laugh, but they asked
her to keep the noise down.
She wanted to explore, but they said
it was best if she lay back, rest a while,
it would be a long trip, would she please
just draw them a picture of a horse or a spade,
a packet of seeds they could plant
back wherever they came from. Through
the floor-holes she could see her husband
still sleeping on the lawn.
She had never wanted more badly
to tear through his loneliness,
lie softly like an animal on his chest.