I live with Aliens.
They’ve been with us for millennium,
but they are not like you and me.
With me they walk around on their
five,
six,
seven toed feet.
You know,
Hemingway loved them.
These aliens come from that Hemingway line.
Perhaps there’s something of Ernest in them.
They are dramatic after all.
Crying out at odd times.
Not too clear about what they’re trying to communicate.
Saying it regardless.
Staggering there and then here
on those
five,
six,
seven toed feet.
Willing to do anything to remain, the
Center of Attention.
Hacking sounds.
Piles left in hidden places
to be found
when others are present,
visiting,
or stepped on in the middle of the night.
Perhaps Hemingway was an Alien.
I can see him flicking his tail,
Certainty in his Being.
I provide for my aliens and they ignore me.
I put treats in their food to help their
skin,
digestion,
teeth
and they stare me down.
Really?
I’m not necessarily afraid of them, mind you,
even though I wake to see them sitting above me,
but it’s not like they’re my friends either.
They’re nothing like you and me.
They’re aliens.
That’s really all there is to say about it.

Holly Hughes teaches at Community Montessori in Boulder and completed CWP 1 in June of 2015.