when the night the visitors came, we covered our ears.
our soil hummed & then screamed.
we mistook their halos for airplanes. in their arms
they cradled giant teeth. spoke a language full of nails.
in the morning, i often cut a hole in the sky to let the sun out.
these beings had no use for light; it radiated from their eyes.
we welcomed them as we do all visitors. angels or gods or
demons or interplanetary birds. we fed them
oatmeal & all laughed like rain. i wished i were them.
opening homes like sweet melons. begged them to stay,
but they departed by turning into grains of rice. to this day
we keep those grains in a little bowl by the door.