by Mickey Kulp
The seven impressive aliens
bowed, their prism eyes revising
the light of our yellow sun
into something their stringy
nerves could sever and snip
and send to the brains in their rumps.
This was no private venue.
The billions of Earth sat on pins,
watching it unfold, wondering if
the visitors would seize the
humans, prune off their heads or nip
out their eyes or send viruses
up their wiggling spines.
In unison, the seven delivered
their universal benediction, a
verse so riven with meaning that
even hatchlings never mistake this
“Yoomans,” they sizzled through
slits like sieves in their sides,
“we wish you good greetings, and
may the sun shine forever
on your penis.”
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