Impossibly small,
Fragile.
My finger:
Smallest piece of me,
Reaches to touch
Him enormous
In contrast.

Swaddled tight,
His blanket an embrace. Afraid to
Break, step back
And gaze. Pine needles are bones
and nothing matters.

Rhythmic beep, a whir,
Alien invasion of ultrasound: tentacles for a
human picture.
Earthly: a new mother’s glow.
Fathers: smile.
Even my own aliens. What peace they know.

And the light,
Like a brick, pierces
The pane it illuminates so we appear
Otherworldly.
But, one glance: him, with a button for a nose
Shows us that sharpness, the clarity (mortality).
We must not be aliens.

A cloud of bees is shoved
Into a corner
And I am consumed. A fire blazed.
I ponder, mold my clay,
Shaping it in
Wonder. That brand new
Car smell.

Fire, my hand grows hot.
I feel grateful
For these aliens (I still call them that).
A splash of ice, this is novel so
Set aside, far from the mother,
Kiss of a partner,
Touch of a friend. Cold,
I grasp. Its another dimension.
New again. That car a
New link and bond.

Before I was the child.
Half moons, scrunched toes.
Lips: they were roses!
Aliens built my fire. But I also got
Bees and I had a button.
They told, taught and
My lips bloomed.
It was wonderful.

Then I grew, becoming an alien.
Cities of machinery where
I stepped forward, backward.
Don't step on the pine needles.
I laughed, lived. I was ablaze.
Too many bright lights, but
It was wonderful.
Then he appeared,
Once again my brain molds,
There is a stop. Switch. I hit the bend,
Sharp green, a turn in the road.



Another bend, a new piece of clay,
Not a road,
No greens,
Just a rollercoaster.
Dropping stomach
I snap back.
Look at the living boy and
His red face. A tomato.
Scrunched up eyes. Glasses
but better. Not words they align
but life.
Birdlike fingers. A bird made of needles.
His tiny mouth letting out a sigh.
A tulip (pink). I was a rose.

And my clay hardens. The fire
sizzles. It feels
of spring, but I
only see pine trees in Autumn.
I have morphed, no longer the child.
An alien now, we have another
To pick flowers.
I’m not fully green,
but he is still pink and red.
Guess I gave him part of the rose.

And now, I see
The peak where
I can almost lick the wind but
There’s not a belt. Rollercoasters.
My arm can hold tight. My job
To tend the flower.
There’s always
More than one car.

I'll be the belt.
That fabric,
So many stitches, I think
There is rose red thread.
My fire,
Clay,
The lights and
The bees.
Him. That Tulip. I'll give him the lights.

Petals hold the bliss of ignorance, it needs
Safekeeping. I guess its baby’s breath.
Those pine needles,
That tomato, and the inside of the tulip (yellow).
Each needs a seat belt.

It really is wonderful.