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.
Current Issue
21 Nov 2022

As far back as I could remember, Oma warned me about the bats. She said they would eat me if they found me exposed at night. But I knew the green light of the moon would protect me, even when I was still smaller than Oma.
The truth is: / she does not have to bend into a ceramic plate to carry us beautifully, & my father / isn't the hand that will break her.
the rattle of the rails, the shuffling-muttering of hundreds of passengers nestled in the one long limb of you
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