Still waiting to be abducted by aliens. My neck hurts from always looking up — questioning every glint — expecting some 1950s Russian saucer to drop down from the sky and little men in metallic suits, who talk in math, will walk out and steal me from earth.
At least I have your poems. They’ve become unearthly lights in the night. Something glowing at the bottom of the sea. An indistinct roar in the woods. Goosebumps on my skin.
Claudia Lamar, July 13, 2012