Jet Fuel

This is how it is -
twenty five planes spread across
the tarmac, waiting.

A dry cabin cell
removed from the boundless hills
and trenches outside.

Here where echoes die,
crinkling wrappers in my ear
like lovers' whispers.

scuffed picture window postcards
and tiny taupe shutters.

Thumbs on plastic squares,
eyes face forward on faces
gray, worn and tired.

Twenty four have flown
and the last remain, removed
from earth, sick and sad.

This is how it was -
An arrow sailed over wall
flattening my breast.

I held the last pure
thoughts to the very last clean breath,
til I slunk under.

From whirley alley
To yellow light and slack tubes
and urine and shit.

They said it was rot.
Sterility made me sick.
Now the plane has me.

They're all here now and
waiting like me, vacant eyes
shuttered from the cold

Passengers' lost eyes
work past industrial glass
to lakes of pooled ash.

And how it will be -
Green pastures and forests far,
far below our feet

A two seat biplane,
tubes framing the wings and a
sky boundless as death.

Find a path through it,
curling round the maze of fire
swooping under guns,

knives, daylight and you.
High stone and violence, squalor
madness, life and you.

In the sky where souls
sick and drawn find respite from
wan, deadened hallways -

we will dream of it
while jet fuel fills our noses
staving the bitter cold.


Popular Posts