Normally I’d send this out a bit more, but there aren’t exactly a lot of places that take science fiction poetry. Silly of them to pass up this chance to have the bragging rights later that they published one of Moe Lane’s poems, of course. But their loss is your gain.
Here Are The Aliens
We looked outwards and asked
“Where is everybody?”
We waited, and watched, and knew
That nobody was coming.
It was all up to us.
So we sang our science
Into steel and star-fire.
We built our ships with blood
And sacrifice; we learned
How to dance the Deep Dark.
We connived at cheating space
Of our presence. These things
We learned for this moment.
This one, perfect moment.
The moment where you look up
And say “Ah. Yes. Of course.
THAT’S where everybody is.
They’ve come to us at last!
The aliens are here.”
We will be your aliens
Aloof; mysterious.
Or shining Star-Brothers,
Open-handed, joyous.
Or ominous, vast, cool,
And Unsympathetic.
Perhaps enigmatic?
Distorted reflections?
Whatever the role,
We will be your aliens…
…If you will just be ours.