The Martian Princess of Glass visits Wollongong, her hometown.
The fans that line the streets wave mirrors and Windex™,
she smiles all blue and chromed,
removes reflective lenses
with flashes sunborne from reflective eyes.
I remember when she was just the Martian
down the street.
How I planned to meet her,
how every day I practiced her name—
Deija, ¤≈ℑξ ϖ¿ in Martian, hard to pronounce.
It’s midseason summer, mercury is seeping
from thermometers and I’m sweating in the crowd.
Fainters are given coffee, iced, and the sky
is glaring steel, forty five degrees if it’s a day.
The past has points of no return,
the others all beyond the vanishment and gone,
not called back in fantasy or memory,
victims of reality, they’ve found a sharper focus for their lives.
But not you, ever Deija,
my weakness is to live in times gone by,
in dreams of Martian meadows beneath the geodesic domes
The city council, the families and the hangers-on
are waiting on the podium
where the florists’ efforts wilt and fade.
In the sky, hot air mirages, spinning bivalves
to target us with heat rays from the fifties.
They’ve come from Mars—
an inconvenient invasion
from the embarrassed planet.
The welcoming committee smolders and burns,
fiery hairdos and flaming
synthetic business suits.
Some are stripping off informally
Deija is serenely heat resistant, her
ceremonial platform drifts on tiny fusion jets
above the chaos to the mayor.
He removes a human mask,
reveals reflective blue beneath,
and clambers up to ride beside her.
On the streets, confusion flees in all directions
with energy beams in warm pursuit,
and one last question troubles me:
How could you, ever Deija? How could
you choose the mayor over me?
Mars—the embarrassed planet