Oh silly silly humans, who cry and flee in fear
at my shimmery skin, at my hoverboard’s sight
they would much rather think I rode a wooden broom
or waved a crooked wand that emits crackly light
because the very thought of beings just like me
whose fast and massive ships traverse the cosmos might
whose brains do understand the secrets of the skies …
That’s just too much to grasp, yet magic just seems right?
I sigh and roll my eyes, all seven pairs, plus three
on my cloaking device, the witchcraft mods excite
and in the human’s eyes, I’ve got long hair, green eyes
a robe in black that’s loose, except where it is tight.
The drunken human grins, approaches, looking coy.
You see, it’s not that he should not be feeling fright
but cortisol secretes when humans feel all stressed
and fill the creatures’ blood, so their taste just ain’t right;
I want my prey all calm before my maw’s agape
the perfect taste of flesh, my meal is a delight.
Maura Yzmore wrangles words and equations somewhere in Flyover Land. Her poetry can be found in Back Patio Press, Neologism Poetry, Elephants Never, and elsewhere. See more at https://maurayzmore.com or on Twitter @MauraYzmore.