Image courtesy of Alien Covenant

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Fine, Then

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No one wants to touch the skin
of this poem, its unhatched
enigma. The words sit in rows
like alien pods, oozing deceit.

Truth is rarely the destination
to begin with, but it helps
to know where you’re going.
Or so I’ve been told.

Perhaps there’s a hangar
out there, in deep, airless space,
on some abandoned planet,
just waiting for disaster to strike.

Perhaps there’s a ship, too,
a rusty hulk (given my luck)
heading toward it, spewing
fuel throughout the universe.

If so, count me in. This world
is too tame for my ambitions.
I want to be eaten alive
by a well-read alien.

I want him to wink and kiss
away my title, undress
my metaphors slowly, each
syllable falling off with a hiss.

I want him to sink one sharp
alien fang into the quivering
pulp of a stanza, so that
it comes undone at the seams.

He’ll undoubtedly see his alien
god as he slurps me up, as I
run down his chin in a streak
of quasi-alien gibberish.

He’ll dribble over that last
succulent line, growl how
it’s been eons since he’s done
this, and never with a human.

After, he’ll scoop a chunk of flesh
from his molar with an alien
toothpick. He’ll ask for my
number. He’ll say I was good.

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First published by The Normal School: A Literary Magazine, winter 2019