Wednesday, 4 September 2013

The aviator ponders the strength of birds.

The sound of regret is the distant hum
of a bomber returning home,
his ears echo with the whistle
of the bomb; Lucifer falling to earth.
Shame is filled in his finger that rested
on the button.The same finger
that released the empty fuel canisters,
falling, like feathers, into oblivion.
Infamy is silver, like the Enola Gay,
polished silver, a mirror to catch all light –
it burns his synapses with memories
of never known children dying in their sleep.

Haunted by the massacre, feet stomp
in his veins; duty soldiers that march
as if his heart still beat; attach themselves
to every blood cell, every corpuscle
and white cell of defense - the inner rivers
of the body putrid with radiation.
His body is a wrinkled flesh-coffin
sunk beneath the  juddering waters
flowing from the Styx – the stench
of death, a misplayed note always heard.
The aviator’s mind is a b flat, a broken string,
a trumpet in the mouth of the babe.

A million emperor moth cacoons, emptied,
crushed, to make a pillow, could not soak up
his unshed tears, even if his tears
could be made into wasps to sting cheeks
endlessly, the rivers he could create
would not suffice. When death comes
they will not need a burial, merely toss
his carcass upon the earth and it shall sink.

The aviator moves like a honey eater,
sucks up what nectar he finds, obligated
to sate the needs while the far off mountain top
where he could sit remains as cold and empty
as the love between a leper and a pilot.

That plane: He is that plane. He is Enola Gay,
happiest before the event, saddest
on the return flight.

In some shadowed field the dreams of men
rest, their thoughts spread like B-52 wings,
their words propellers rusted, still – a field
of all that went wrong no matter how high
he aimed. He has no blood, no movement,
no waters, no chance to explode.

His dreams are flooded with people aflame,
like a thousand burning matches;
their spirits the smoke
after the puff of Goddish breath.
His bed is nailed to his chest, - his dreams
and memories, and choice. Yeah he cries
from his ravine, ‘We have choice!’

As water has choice,
the easy paths through limestone and granite,
or as the bird - to risk the fall
and conquer the elements by sacrificing weight.

 There is strength in hollowness.

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