2 Poems

The night's face, pocked with stars.

In the stellar wind, we soar.

From this pale light,

acknowledge insignificance, watch

the blue spinning so far away, so close.

I am that finite point

of nowhere, of nothing, wondering

when the sun will truly darken,

if I will see tomorrow, today.

Perhaps the left ventricle, or the anterior descending

vein. No matter which you grab, I'll not survive

the seizure, but is that not the point? And which coin

will you place in my mouth to ease the passage across

the river Acheron? Or will I remain on the banks,

neutral and overlooked, forgotten. If this river is woe,

I serve its pride. I wear its banner. Do you recall the

butcher's bill from that last flight? Sixty innocents,

including children. How many more must we tally

before admitting to the futility of perpetual war?

An acquaintance on the ground that day saw the

flash and immediately thought there are no mistakes,

just as I, from my box in Nevada, admitted, too, that

no mistakes occur, a synchronicity joined in death

and its production. I no longer employ euphemism.

When my coworker's eyes crinkle and he laughs

about weeding the lawn of fun-sized terrorists,

I see bloody children, mangled flesh, smoke and

flame. I kill from comfort and afar. This is my life.