Alien Poem by Jenny Kalahar

He came from a foreign land
although it may have only been Chicago
or the dankest jungles of New York.
Urgent, indecipherable words
were spit in the direction of my ears with wet insistence
begging that I see that he must eat.

Tanned hand hand hand to lips in a hunger mime
or bird-to-baby-bird demand.
He was much more animated than an American
so I did, after a time, consider him an alien
plopped somewhere by tired-of-him relatives
in his red silk shirt, full of tears and stains
and black wool slacks, holey and rotted at the crotch.

When he found me on my beach vacation
toes in their own, snug sand tunnels
with runnels of wave water visiting to cool
I nearly recognized him:
He was so Uncle Maxwell from Philly-like
around his eyes; he had Uncle Harold's nose.
I saw that his waist had shrunk
since he'd first worn the slacks
and I pointed to my folded beach towel
gaudy in bright Pepto Bismol pink and white stripes.
I had him unfold it and sit
gave him a strawberry pop, a Reader's Digest
and half of a too-warm egg salad sandwich
that I should have eaten hours before

Seabirds annoyed me, but with my alien beside me
I let myself half imagine
that they were there to translate:
diving close to hear
flying up and away to think
diving close again to say.
But, of course, they were calling their translated words
in yet another language I did not know

When the sun was settling comfortably on the distant waves
I gathered my low-legged folding chair
pink-striped towel, damp-paged Borges,
dented metal picnic basket
and my old man.
All of them fit neatly into my car
as if I'd bought the purple Volkswagen last year
in special preparation for this company.
I let him spin the radio dial slowly, station by station
as brightening headlights swarmed at us and then passed by
until he found familiarity at last:
a lilting polka full of sadness despite its bouncing accordion.
He clapped open-window evening air between his hands,
tears on his tanned cheeks left unwiped,
his smiles going up and down
reminding me of a conductor's baton.
I turned the volume up for him as a semi passed us loudly
and he kissed his own hand, the back of it
and then pressed that kiss against my arm

For years now, my alien and I, together
build a gentle orange backyard campfire on clear-sky evenings,
strawberry sodas and egg salad sandwiches ready to share
with neighbors who come over to sway and dance to his favorite tunes
on radio or from his accordion
until our spent night is too dark to see much more than embers.
I know I will have to learn his language some year
or he will learn mine
or we could adopt a seabird from a nearby shore
to interpret companionable words for both of us
so that I will be his alien no more