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They Came in Tiny Ships
Rachel Ayers

They came in tiny ships

no bigger than our pinky nails.


They came to rule us

with egos the size of cities.


They sailed the lightwaves

for a thousand years.


They said.

They loved us.


They tried to fix us but we

liked the parts they thought broken.


They danced around us, and we

circled around them.


They were impervious to our

attacks and diseases and consumerism.


They watched us die

in the wars and the heat.


They floated like cottonwood fluff

in a great funeral migration.


They sang their mourning, or close enough,

for they had no lips or vocal chords.


They came too late, or perhaps

we left too soon.


They left in tiny ships,

no bigger than our pinky nails.

Rachel Ayers lives in Alaska, where she stares at mountains, writes, and hosts shows for Sweet Cheeks Cabaret. She is a regular contributor at and her fiction has recently appeared in Metaphorosis and Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet. She shares speculative poetry and flash fiction (and cat pictures) at

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