Size / / /

I will tell you

in those transports you bomb,

their groaning metal evolving to blooms of ragged air,

soldiers of your enemy wait

stroking the flanks of their guns.

I will tell you

when you cut down their planes and crack the holds,

those withered vegetables you find

aren't food but weaponry; those dolls

actually spies with alien eyes.

I will tell you

the noise you hear when you hack their coms

is no language beautiful as your own

but the noise of a million insects

descending like locusts toward your planet.

I will tell you

the broken bodies of the children you find

in the hollowed rubble of your cannon fields

were planted by your enemy

to confuse you.

You need truth to win a war.

Listen. I will tell you.




When not writing, M. Frost works as a veterinarian in Pennsylvania. Her poetry appears in numerous venues, including Star*Line, The Magazine of Speculative Poetry, Astropoetica, Pemmican, and the International Journal of Humanities and Peace. She is member of the SFPA, and her forthcoming book, Cow Poetry and Other Notes From the Field, will be published in December by Finishing Line Press. You can reach her through her website or email.
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21 Sep 2022

There is little more inspirational than a writer who devotes her talents to the work of others.
I was twelve when my mother was born. Twelve or thereabouts. If I’d been older, I could have said things like I never wanted to be a daughter; I don’t have a filial bone in my body. Relatives could have tilted their heads at me, insisting I’d change my mind. But I was twelve so I said nothing. I had no relatives.
a few miles from the fallout zone. / You double-check the index card
Unripe morning / cut open too soon
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