Many things, amongst them, Martians,
are allegorically immune,
just and only themselves.
What might now be learned?
Shall we hang our knowledge bright
on wooden poles, defiant glows beneath the arc
of Google Sky?
When the ladybugs conquered my kitchen
their ultimatum made reference to aphids and fleas,
and so with the Martians—a hunger for
Such mighty warriors they are,
gilded helmets horned with aftershave
and roll-on deodorant, cuirasses ablaze
with medallions, emblems of a sun dyed red.
They have no interest in souls or domesticated pets,
only their tithe of carbohydrates
to be crushed in the towering power stacks
that drive their iron machines.
Day and night they spin and grind,
transmuting our old fashioned biosphere
into dry winds and deserts, scattered with
hematite and quartz.
At night I see their discards, the pale
luminosities of lesser creations, tiny animas aglow.
I chase the flames of scuttering goannas
and dream of sooty squirrels, charcoaled fish,
scurrying and floundering.
Our souls are drifting particles,
Ruanna told me,
eternal and magnetic.
They gather at refractive moments
in the timelines of our lives
and draw our memories to follow.
We leave traces of ourselves with others,
but I’m not the one
In arcades, on upper floors, we wander
through fashion glazed in windows, drifts of
summer cotton, knits for midseason,
the fabrics of a time that once we wore.
At an ATM, I join a queue:
no plastic no pockets no clothes no flesh,
a remembered PIN, a phantom
disinherited from everything but nostalgia.
At the front of the line I stare
at the keyboard and reminisce—
three one four nine and Ruanna.