Aeromancy
The town has lost its bell
With its fathers inside—
What then is the ringing at
This funeral? Possibly I am
Not myself—whose laughing
Has become this parade?
If you were to break into
The set-back, immense houses,
You’d have your run of
Things no one’s coming home
For, anyway. Girls go by
Twirling wooden guns;
Dead soldiers go by twirling
Dead soldiers. Nearby,
A kid’s face turns purple
From the colored ice—wish
It different, under trees over
Our graves. Our bodies—
The floats turning away onto
Side streets, into the house
I grew up in. The house I
Will die in. A man sweeping,
A mother looking for
Her children, a whistle leading
Traffic back onto Main Street.
Two blocks over and moving
Away, a brassy drum. The sound,
A porch swing, keeping time.
Posted 02/05/13
Originally published in Bat City Review.