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.