by Laura Madeline Wiseman

          like saucers skipping on water
                    ~Kenneth Arnold, 1947

They move in crowds, cluster together
in public spaces, the neon glow of strips,
the strobe of clubs, the dank of toilets.

When they talk their faces stay flat,
mouths open as if they would speak.
Their heads are several sizes too big

for their bodies, slim arms and legs,
boyish in their gangly stride. Their eyes
never blink. If you can get one alone

you won’t hear the pant of breathing.
No hot caresses, only that saucer stare
part in this room, part adrift in space.

Their skeletal selves fill flashy covers
and exclusives in the check-out aisle.
An offer to gawk, to guffaw, to reveal

you knew one once. All of us alien
in our fetish with Martians, the red planet,
beams of light which propel our eyes up.

LAURA MADELINE WISEMAN is the recipient of the 2009 Academy of American Poets Award from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, where she is a doctoral candidate and teaches English. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Feminist Studies, MARGIE, Arts & Letters, and elsewhere. She is the author of two chapbooks My Imaginary (Dancing Girl Press, forthcoming 2010) and Ghost Girl (Pudding House, forthcoming). Other awards include the Mari Sandoz Award in fiction, the Will Jumper Award in poetry, and five Pushcart Prize nominations. Residences include the Herbert Hoover Artist-in-Residency Program. She holds a BS in English literature and women’s studies from Iowa State University and an MA in women’s studies from the University of Arizona.