The aliens are coming

but I’m tired of waiting for them

they’ve left signs in the cornfields again

I haven’t figured out what they say

but I know they’re coming

As long as they don’t eat my dog

or probe my dad in the middle of the night

then I don’t mind feeding them chicken soup

and supplying batteries for their ship

so they can ship themselves back home

Arianna Sebo (she/her) is a queer poet and writer living in Southern Alberta with her husband, pug, and five cats. Her poetry can be found in Kissing Dynamite, The Coachella Review, Front Porch Review, and 45 Poems of Protest: The Pandemic. Follow her at and @AriannaSebo on Twitter and Instagram.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *