Member-only story
Meeting Aliens
A poem
It can happen any minute or hour,
in the street or the supermarket,
a dropped can of beans at your feet
or jaywalking at a forty-five degree angle.
You feel uneasy
notice the clear whites of their eyes
and quiet hands
which you are loathe to touch.
They speak from the heart,
which is always suspicious,
are passionate in still times
and long for unbreathed air.
You want to believe
the blood draining through their veins
is green, or as thick as glue,
but how would you know unless
you sliced one apart?
They fall about when knocked
like rolling pins in flour
raising dust and apologies.
And always your disquiet
bloats like warm bread dough
that should be punched down.
You long to touch their skulls
and find indescribable lumps
which can be labelled anything safe
except brain tumours caused by sanity.
