A Martian Sends a Postcard Home
(After Craig Raine)
People do their social duty as conduits
moving liquids from bottles, barrels and cans

to thirsty yawning pedestals. They keep their Gods
indoors and in gardens, honouring them

with food or toys, ritual walks, playful games and,
sometimes, human names on feeding bowls.

Television is a prison with inmates boxed in,
forced to entertain or disappear, off screen.

People communicate with their lips:
a gentle touch reveals white enamel

and a suction hold is considered passion
but a gaping void barks loud disapproval.

Exercise is a violent act, invasive and
accompanied by painful cries. It takes two

and often makes a third appear in almost a year.
The arrival itself is racked with pain

and delivers forth a bloodied body,
screaming at the unjust expulsion

from the warmth and safety of its
bulbous inner sanctuary.

Meanwhile, the dead are stored, mounted,
in two dimensions, displayed in great halls

for respectful visitors and herds of noisy little people
who laugh and jump and shout

celebrating  their mourning.