Friday, September 9, 2011

18, free


For the long slow funeral
with open parachute
you recognize the fall won't take long.
No pallbearers
or wanted.


From here the fields are yellow circles
trapped in squares, yellow
and clay-red,
made of corn
and rimmed with broccoli
coming up at full-tilt,
transmogrifying into trees.
Strands of wheat
in hot, vacant wind
turn the earth's teeth
into a roaring, boiling greeting.

Up above, your folks wave
from the plane--your father, his binoculars,
his victory cigar--and hope upon hope
upon hope
you'll pull your chord
and stop up short
like a coat hanger's hooked your collar,
halted above the wide mouth of stones, alone
in the free air
above the much-spattered ground.


As you fall you wait
you scream for a full stop,
and you look:
you can see your whole world, your mama
up there, waving.
The sea wheat is waving, too.
The view is good
but your ears are bursting open

and your chute,
the one you hoped would catch you
is already out
already failing, painted
by the blood from your ears. 

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