Aliens in America
Sometimes, the only way to see our world clearly is through the eyes of an intergalactic traveler.
THE INTERGALACTIC TRAVELER COMES TO JESUS AT BUC-EE’S
No, the many giant, gleaming white,
sheet metal crosses that sprout up
along the highways do not impress,
nor do the more numerous churches,
big or small that dot the land in old
stone or brick or modern mega steel.
He has seen rituals and witnessed
pilgrimages and all forms of devotion,
from serene astral temples to violent
sacrifices, so he hardly blinks what must
function in place of an eye until he comes
across the strangely even rows upon rows
of fuel pumps, mirrored by the gleaming
porcelain toilets, urinals, and sinks,
the serpentine paths of the congregants,
and the officiants weaving among them,
taking up their offering and passing out
various forms of the host, steaming piles
of meat or sugary snacks and drinks, all
under the watchful eye of the priest, robed
in a giant smiling cartoon beaver costume.
All hail commerce; all hail mass consumption,
all hail the sweet, sweet oblivion of opulence.
THE INTERGALACTIC TRAVELER WATCHES THE NEWS
Here’s the deal, earthlings. When your news comes on
with guns blazing and body counts rising, it is bad enough
when the cause is war. When one of you drives what
you think is a long way, though in intergalactic terms
is infinitesimally short, carrying what you call a long rifle
capable of killing dozens in seconds, powerful enough
to blow the head off a child or a hole through the chest
of a woman; when your self-hatred bleeds over into
hatred of others and random killing, then we travelers begin to
feel there is simply no point to your existence. Despite the lush
greens and vibrant blues of your planet, its delicious oxygen,
we wonder whether the universe would be better off without you.
Don’t get us wrong, our civilizations have fared no better.
What do you think drove us here? And yet we give up on you
earthlings, or “‘humans’” as you like to call yourselves. We hear
your senseless arguments and transparent rationalizations,
and we give up on you till we see the little girl who smeared
herself with the blood of a friend and warily hid amongst the dead,
until we hear the life stories of the victims and the outrage
of the survivors, when once again, we can root for your survival.
About the author
Kendall Dunkelberg directs the low-residency MFA in Creative Writing and the Eudora Welty Writers’ Symposium at Mississippi University for Women. He is editor ofPoetry Southand has had poems appear recently inDelta Poetry Review, Valley Voices,andPeauxdunque Review.His fourth collection of poetry,Tree Fall With Birdsong,will be published by Fernwood Press in 2025.