Occasionally, I think I’m an alien — my viewpoint
still strangely humanistic — who makes odd faces
at himself in the mirror, who blurts out a language
that sounds to me at once both ancient and futuristic.
And shouldn’t I be terrified this being so beyond me
lives within, seizing control of both my body and
my mind. Are you the reason for all this strangeness
in my life, for all these changes unexplained and
all this strife, or am I, while you stand by attempting
to set the record straight, as you are undoubtedly wise
— my ironic anchor, my saucered light, as if I might
drift off into oblivion if I did not harbor you inside.
Oh creepy creature, body-snatcher, make the world
match up with my mind — a peaceful world, in which
people are kind and sane, where I won’t find myself
at a loss for real words, at odds with the real world,
alone in the bathroom making idiot sounds and twisted
faces in the mirror. Make my life a joy again, not one
that’s full of loneliness and fear — or break this chain
and take me back to the place from which you came.
Stephen Jackson [he/him] lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest. His work has appeared in a variety of publications including The American Journal of Poetry, Chronotope, Dreams Walking, Ghost City Review, Impossible Archetype, Iō Literary Journal, Mineral Lit Mag, and Quince, as well as on the International Human Rights Art Festival Publishes platform and in The PoetRhy Garden. @fortyoddcrows