ADAM FORD
The Great Rocketeers Revival!
after ROM #22, September 1981
She tugs her robe tighter. The kids
munch cornflakes. It's two parts
Norman Rockwell, one part Amazing
Science Stories. The sleepy-small-town
living room. The boxes still unpacked.
Yesterday's welcoming committee back
again. The dour reverend. The pipe-smoking
patriarch. The elderly hausfrau. The young
couple. With them the seven-foot metal
man from the stars and beside them the
man she married, the ex-football star in
skin-tight blue and silver. She's seen him
in cleats and shoulder pads, saggy-waisted
PJs and battered yardwork shirt, the holes
under each arm offering glimpses of his
glistening chest, but never this kind of
outfit, like overalls but smoother and snug
against his muscles, the implicit motion of
his helmet curving like a Chrysler hood.
He notices her gaze and reddens, looking
less comfortable than the time he stood
next to her in his too-starched tux and
spoke the words they’d written together.
They all sit at the breakfast table. He tells
her the truth - all of it. About the aliens.
The corrupt politician. The experimental
flight suit. The gang of jetpack assassins
hunting him down. She thought they'd
moved for work. A slower pace. A place
to raise a family. She thinks about how
long it's been since a Sunday waking
without tiny humans wedged between
them, nothing arguments to referee and
demands for waffles and syrup to meet.
She remembers his thigh against hers,
the smell of his hair. Outside the window
children scream. She hears gunfire. The
squeak of chairlegs on brand-new linoleum.
The cyborg from space and her superhero
husband step away from the table. She
looks into his eyes behind the pale red
lenses. He holds her gaze for a second,
then follows the silver figure out the front
door. Someone once told her the closeness
of death can make you think of sex. She
tugs her robe and offers her guests more tea.
after ROM #22, September 1981
She tugs her robe tighter. The kids
munch cornflakes. It's two parts
Norman Rockwell, one part Amazing
Science Stories. The sleepy-small-town
living room. The boxes still unpacked.
Yesterday's welcoming committee back
again. The dour reverend. The pipe-smoking
patriarch. The elderly hausfrau. The young
couple. With them the seven-foot metal
man from the stars and beside them the
man she married, the ex-football star in
skin-tight blue and silver. She's seen him
in cleats and shoulder pads, saggy-waisted
PJs and battered yardwork shirt, the holes
under each arm offering glimpses of his
glistening chest, but never this kind of
outfit, like overalls but smoother and snug
against his muscles, the implicit motion of
his helmet curving like a Chrysler hood.
He notices her gaze and reddens, looking
less comfortable than the time he stood
next to her in his too-starched tux and
spoke the words they’d written together.
They all sit at the breakfast table. He tells
her the truth - all of it. About the aliens.
The corrupt politician. The experimental
flight suit. The gang of jetpack assassins
hunting him down. She thought they'd
moved for work. A slower pace. A place
to raise a family. She thinks about how
long it's been since a Sunday waking
without tiny humans wedged between
them, nothing arguments to referee and
demands for waffles and syrup to meet.
She remembers his thigh against hers,
the smell of his hair. Outside the window
children scream. She hears gunfire. The
squeak of chairlegs on brand-new linoleum.
The cyborg from space and her superhero
husband step away from the table. She
looks into his eyes behind the pale red
lenses. He holds her gaze for a second,
then follows the silver figure out the front
door. Someone once told her the closeness
of death can make you think of sex. She
tugs her robe and offers her guests more tea.
Peril, Thy Name is Plunderer!
after ROM: Spaceknight #13, December 1980
She remembers the way the flashlight
went out when he held it in the big
silver mitten of his hand, how he stroked
that silver mitten down Nipper's back
as he listened to her story of lost yachts
and pirates, patiently waiting with her
in the coolness of the cave where she'd
led him unable to explain why she hadn't
told ma and pa about the man in armour
she'd found on the rocks like in that book
from the school library about the iron man
washed up on shore but not in parts like
that one, all together this one was except he
didn't know his own name, a mystery like
Nancy Drew: The Case of the Forgetting
Sea-Wrack Robot, a secret just for her and
the dog to keep or solve, a bottle with no
message inside, another lost thing found
beachcombing like the piece of cheek-
smooth sea glass and the albatross feathers
all unzipped and the bright brittle cuttlefish
and that belly-up pufferfish she'd been too
scared to pick up and throw into the foam,
always broken things and small and dead,
never something this big or alive or complete,
never something so strange or full of promise.
after ROM: Spaceknight #13, December 1980
She remembers the way the flashlight
went out when he held it in the big
silver mitten of his hand, how he stroked
that silver mitten down Nipper's back
as he listened to her story of lost yachts
and pirates, patiently waiting with her
in the coolness of the cave where she'd
led him unable to explain why she hadn't
told ma and pa about the man in armour
she'd found on the rocks like in that book
from the school library about the iron man
washed up on shore but not in parts like
that one, all together this one was except he
didn't know his own name, a mystery like
Nancy Drew: The Case of the Forgetting
Sea-Wrack Robot, a secret just for her and
the dog to keep or solve, a bottle with no
message inside, another lost thing found
beachcombing like the piece of cheek-
smooth sea glass and the albatross feathers
all unzipped and the bright brittle cuttlefish
and that belly-up pufferfish she'd been too
scared to pick up and throw into the foam,
always broken things and small and dead,
never something this big or alive or complete,
never something so strange or full of promise.
Adam Ford is the author of the poetry collections The Third Fruit is a Bird and Not Quite the Man for the Job, and the short story collection Heroes and Civilians. He lives in Chewton, a small ex-gold-mining town in central south-eastern Australia. He likes to write poems about robots and anxiety. He tweets and instagrams at @adamatsya and his website is theotheradamford.wordpress.com.