Once, in a sci-fi thriller
I saw an alien reach
reptilian claw deep
into a victim’s chest,
pull bloody, beating
heart, dripping trophy
to cosmic murder lust.
Terrible thrust left no
wound, just sudden
parting of flesh, gap
like the Red Sea
hurtling against sandy
banks, flowing back
in crushing surge of surf.
Earth killed it of course,
frozen like a Minnesota
lake in January, thirty
below, dumped its scaly
green ass in artic ice.
Still, my chest seemed
to ache for days, solid
world ready to open
at some strange touch.
My bedroom walls
become portals, my
pillow a white swamp
gurgling beneath streets.
Somewhere, behind my
mother’s daily words, so
familiar and barely heard,
lurked some ancient rite
whispered just beyond
range. It wasn’t difficult
to see the sequel coming.
In my quiet neighborhood
prescient dogs howled.