By Nathan Retherford
Too often we yearn for even a drip
Of that nostalgia-juice to enter our mouth-galaxies,
Until we are shouting “Where are the space invaders?”
Or our sugared up heads can’t handle any more
And collapse like origami in reverse.
And what five year old didn’t want to be an astronaut?
We held our ray guns too high and thought they were
Sunbeams–at least until we learned to recognize the glint
Of cheap plastic, anyway.
Or remember when we saw light outside our window
And were desperate children gripping our sheets, waiting
For an encounter of the third, fourth, or eleventh kind?
But besides, when you learn that planets
are mostly gas, the real fun is taken out of it.
Or when we thought we could offer the earth salvation with heart?
Or when we set our phasers to stun and froze indescribable
Green men into victory statues?
Or when the monsters were under the bed instead of in them?
Or the last voyage of the coca-cola bottle, coating the stars in fizz?
Post Script Magazine. 