The Nevada Mission Poem by Richard George

He didn't get it.
I pushed the allegory:
the seven little men around his truck,
the scow, not spaceship.
I called myself Aura Rhanes:
spirit rules, the aura rains -
and down I come like a butterfly.
I was ravishing in part,
Captain Brunette in a beret.
And then he asked me
'What planet are you from? '

I had a cover story.
'Clarion. Behind your moon'.
He seemed to swallow that.

'Clarion' is right, in a way:
a world that you see through, like glass.
Communication is rare, and brief.
I, as an actress, was
to warn mankind about atom bombs -
which I did. He was selected
for his John Doe insignificance.

It gets better. You'd have thought
he'd make a play for me, and I could put
him down. He wouldn't touch me -
he called me 'Queen of women! '
He waved me goodbye in the dawn.

We monitored him.
He told his friends. 'Awra Reins...
what kind of a name is that? '
He drew 'my' picture. 'Aaaah...' - nudge -
quite a broad! Where's she from?
Clarion? Where's that - L.A.? '
His wife divorced him.

The sad thing was,
he expected me to come back.
He'd fallen in love with a character,
less real than Venus.