Size / / /

We leave the porch light on.

Sometimes I think I see the moon

and other assorted moths

flutter around it.

But, eventually, the pull of the stars,

though further off,

is strong enough

to draw them away from our step.

Out beyond us,

past even the Circle K,

space is burning distance

like a high school driver

destroying rubber on any Friday night.

Milky traffic lights click on and off,

directing travellers deeper and deeper into the dark.

Now they're gone;

the newsboy delivers the day.

Perhaps the space visitors

had nothing to say to us

and wanted to abduct nothing more valuable

than our dreams.

Or we've forgotten how to listen

to their message.

Who knows?




Duane Ackerson's poetry has appeared in Rolling Stone, Yankee, Prairie Schooner, The Magazine of Speculative Poetry, Cloudbank, alba, Starline, Dreams & Nightmares, and several hundred other places. He has won two Rhysling awards and a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. He lives in Salem, Oregon. You can find more of his work in our archives.
Current Issue
17 Mar 2025

Strange Horizons will have three open fiction submissions throughout 2025.
In this whole ocean, not a single reply.
We are men making machines, making men.
The customer shakes me until his disc drops into the bin below. Please take your receipt, sir. He kicks me in the side and says, “Thanks for nothing, you piece of shit vending machine!”
Wednesday: Fathomfolk by Eliza Chan 
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By: Holli Mintzer
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Strange Horizons
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Podcast read by: Jenna Hanchey
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