Volume 33, Number 3

Alien Son

I am a Jedi, like my father before me.

—Luke Skywalker to the evil emperor (Return of the Jedi)

You don’t want to know me.

My music would make your ears steam.
It’s Bach. It’s Bizet.
It soothes my brain,
a place for this day’s wounds to heal,
a refuge, like that Tatooine cantina
                      where they won’t care how I’m queer.

You don’t want to know me,
and I don’t want your smirk.

I plot my way home from school.
I don’t plan
to be stomped twice
by some Xenomorph dick
forcing me down in the dirt.
                      It’s smarter to elude than to fight.

You don’t want to know me,
and I don’t need your fists.

I folded my book report,
stuffed it in my back pocket,
so I got nothing in my hands to mock or to grab.
Teacher didn’t blink
to see that compact Ewok stir awake on her desk.
                      Got me a smile and an A.

You don’t want to know me,
and I won’t own your scorn.

I’m going to blast off
                      on my A’s.
Go far far away
                      from your world and your kind.

I’ll miss
                      who I wanted you to be.

—Alexander Payne Morgan