They walked into my house on
Saturday, two of them, no
announcement. Sleek and complete
with youth and metallic
arms, fully functional hands,
clever ankles with a sweet
swivel, as if they were ballerinas.
They poked slender fingers into garbage,
emptied the extra refrigerator, carried
it to a truckless trailer, piled on every
fan except one, rewired the lights
so only two can be on at once.
Why, I asked out loud.
Where do you come from?
They became the truck. As they
pulled the trailer away, dry sun glinted
on the metal bases of the fans,
on their clever hands, the
silvered handle of the fridge.
Brenda Cooper currently resides in Woodinville, WA, and writes science fiction, fantasy, poetry, and non-fiction. Her poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons and in The Salal Review. Her short fiction has appeared in Nature, Asimov’s, Analog, Clarkesworld and in multiple anthologies. Her most recent novel is Spear of Light (Pyr, June 2016). To learn more about Brenda and her work, please visit www.Brenda-cooper.com
Editor’s Notes on “Visitors”: The poem might reminds me of Transformers, as well as Terminator II, as well as a touch of a Star Trek episode—concerning and engineering-advanced, but otherwise “stupid” race—“Samaritan Snare.”