Back
That night
when I returned home
I found him.
He was in my room
where earlier that evening
I'd been playing CDs.
He was jabbering something,
something to do with a dead wife
whose eyes bonded him more strongly
than anything we know on earth.
His words were so eager.
They scattered about the room
like little animals searching.
I sat down and listened.
I felt like someone on TV,
someone out of the X Files.
My wishes were that he
should feel comfortable
in my room,
that he should know
his purple scaled skin
was quite acceptable,
that I liked his green eyes -
a bit like next door's cat's.
But he persisted in jabbering on,
his voice in a strange tone
that I hadn't heard before,
like the sound of a million years
drifting...
He said he was under his lone star,
that he couldn't get back without her,
his wife,
that he couldn't bear to have lost her
in the empty shape
the clouds had killed.
His words echoed
like the sound of horses' hooves.
I asked him if he wanted to eat
but he said he didn't,
I couldn't provide the right food.
Then he hung his head
and died.
I stayed all night beside him,
trying to think of a way
I could account for the strange happening,
wondering what I would tell my mother,
what sort of funeral we'd have
for a real spaceman, not an alien,
a spaceman,
like me.
But when I looked again he'd gone.
Is that what it's like?
Had the day forgot all that,
without trace?
The lonely sun came in
and warmed the space.
© Wendy Bardsley 2014
Spaceman