by David Rogers
Shelter
We keep our bombs indoors
so they don’t rust
or freeze
It is against the law
for bombs to sleep on the sidewalk
but less fortunate bombs
are shelterless
or as some say unsheltered
no silo nor anywhere else to go
No euphemism
can prevent shelterless bombs
from being too cold to fly
when snow covers their graceful shapes
and reminds casual observers
of new graves
Mushroom clouds mimic
the color of tombstones
but do not last as long
unless you count
what dirt and rain remember
Icarus
I thought you died, I said.
He answered, Why is it so hard
for people to believe I knew
How to swim? The moral of my story
is not to always follow orders
and play it safe. Just make your wings
out of something more durable
than wax.
But wood burns, canvas tears,
and metal grows fatigued, I said.
What fabric is safe
to trust with your life?
The fabric of dreams, he said.
I don’t know what that means,
I answered. Are we talking about
how to engineer good wings
or playing with metaphors?
What makes you think
there’s a difference? he asked.
Metaphors can’t fly, I said.
Maybe yours don’t,
he answered, flapped his wings
and leapt from the cliff.
Missing
All your old selves
are missing, gone
in search of more light
and better shadows.
Most of the selves now exist
only on paper
like diaries kept by ancestors
or black-and-white photos
of relatives who died
before you were born.
You think of flying
across the country
but instead only push aside
the curtain so you can see
the back yard. One of the former
selves is there, waving, before
he climbs the fence
and starts across the field.
Was he waving goodbye or hello?
Was he even waving at you?
Add comment