You see the blade
like a shooting star
in the sky of the operating theater.
You can't quite figure
if it ever falls to earth.
And yet there's men and women
clustered about, all in green,
the kind that gather automatically
when mere's been some kind
of astral body impact.
You can feel the held-back cheer
as hands reach into you,
extract something bloody and raw.
It's the hands you can't feel.
It wasn't a shooting star after all then,
but an alien ship.
And it was there, all the time, within you.
You say goodbye to its only passenger.
It's up to the others in this room
to quietly interrogate
the new arrival.
There's so much you can't do.
Speak for example.
Or move your hands.
Everyone but you
can hold the newcomer to
their aproned chest,
ask it simple questions.
It takes your waking self,
your clear head to truly appraise the situation.
It's not science fiction after all.
It's just what happens every day
though never before to you.
It's just life recycling.
He is a baby, red-faced and hungry.
You are a mortal, programmed to love.
John Grey is an Australian-born poet. Recently published in Oyez Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in New Plains Review, Big Muddy Review, Willow Review and Louisiana Literature.