Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Emily, It’s Better This Way
They landed in the morning and nothing happened.
It was six hours before the hatch split.
When finally they emerged, we strained to see
faces, but their helmet visors were mirrored—
we looked and pointed and saw ourselves.
The spacemen lumbered out, bounced around
on the lawn like great big children
in silver snow suits, dancing in slow motion.
Then the sirens blew and we knew
the tornadoes were coming. The sky went
green and we headed for cover. The last person
to see the spacemen was Emily. Before ducking
into the shelter, she looked back and saw one
begin to lift off into the sky. Another spaceman
tried to hold that one down, but he lost his footing
and both of them shot into angry clouds.
About Christopher Citro