I’ve got the alien walk down—the ufo toggled
tractor beam—the dip and dive—the burn of dirt
and corn and palladium—I’ve got the gunmetal
streaks of Lycra and plaid down solid—I’ve got
the alien walk—the slight gallop that has me
hovering an inch above the carpet of the
museum in the desert where my dummy body
was discovered—the synthetic skin-the alienness
of an alien dummy—there are two alien dummies
in this hall-both on either side of glass—my ship
was hauled away but my alien blaster is in the
display next to the alien dummy-the museum
has it labeled unidentified—the bizarre twist of
an alien metal they claim they can’t distinguish—
the burns they’ve traced down to the dead
language of a crash landing-the alien device is
broken—I’ve got the Martian language written on
the soles of these shoes I’ve stole—the alien
now in human clothes because the skin I wore at
arrival was too alien—I’m too alien—a different—I
am different—in some cultures you may call me a
god—alien in my lactation of glass and sinew
that leak from the pores of my vessel—alien in
the way my wings don’t flap and instead fold—
folded because they can’t comprehend such an
inhuman form—alien in my utterances in
universe’s language you read as silence—alien in
the way static electricity suspends itself around
me—cocooning a body of molten flesh—the
body is arranged in a similar way everything in
this room is stretched in unnatural ways—such a
room—such a room—said the alien to no one
listening