Abducted

They stole us into their spaceship with all the others,
but in the commotion and rush somehow misplaced us
and never did any of the tests, and didn’t return us
dazed and dreamy to our bedrooms or cornfields,
and jumped back to their planet
where the ships cook finally found us searching
the pantry for something we could recognize, and everyone agreed
they couldn’t go back, a war was on and energy was short,
so they just let us go and we made a life for ourselves.
They gave us sisters and parents, a dog, a brother, a house
and we found jobs and learned how to use a cell phone,
the simplicity of a light bulb and toaster, the joy
of morning coffee, a second glass of wine, and all the new names
for things that fly and things that dig and swim.
And after those early years, we forgot how it had started
and we were happy. We enjoyed
a kind of hapiness.
But on the summer of our 40th or 30th or 50th year,
the nights grew too warm and too still,
and we found ourselves standing, more and more often
on the red sandstone plateaus, on the bluffs and broad river bends,
suddenly alone, strangers to everything but ourselves,
as I am standing tonight, at Mathis Park, thinking, wondering
where the rest of you have gone,
what retirement is like, if your companions have stayed or taken the house,
and if you’ve found happiness here. Have you learned the words
for please and pleasure, kindness and kiss me. I wonder,
do you spend your nights as I do,
drawn to the stars, the same kind of stars we must have known
on that first world, the same suns and gas giants and comets.
The same mothers of the universe.
even though, here, their order is confuse.
Even though it feels as though we are moving
through a galaxy we were never meant to know.

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