Gwendolyn Hanson

Ballad for the Crop Circle

I abduct myself from a dream. It isn’t easy. I give myself a headache from the effort. I transform the curl of my tongue against your ear into a radio transmission. The prayer carries past Saturn. An impossible sun barrels down to my bedroom, the ship shining aquamarine beneath the streetlights. I am pulled through my window by its tractor beam, the light soft as an anemone. I am returned after asking “are we there yet?” too many times. I land gracelessly in the backyard while you are still asleep in my bed. There is a metal sliver the size of a goldfish cracker under the nape of my neck. I can see where this leads. While my breasts are busy pressing the soil into valleys, the owls ask if I’m alright. I imagine what it is like to free-fall from space. I think it will feel like when you take my fingers into your mouth. I hide under your covers when they come back to take me away. You will find me in a field of bowing wheat. When I get what I want, I stop believing.