The sky exhales a song
From swollen lungs, red and
Straining and screaming and bursting, bursting
As though the mushroom clouds
Were festival balloons, tied to
Fragmented cities, a people limp as
A helping hand, never within reach.

And your family is crying in the basement
When the jet plane finds your way
You will owe the shrapnel a favor
When the bright lights drive them away

I am no lover, I am no heretic
I am the survivor statue hiding empty eyes
Still and broken-boned in this monastery
And when the people have left, I will speak
Like the reassuring preacher on the radio
Raising liquid courage for the bereaved

(You wish you didn’t know, you wish you couldn’t see)

Praying for the buzzing oven to spare
Your potential obituaries; look now
Out the window, paint the black doves white
And go back to your school days when
A child was the dullest thing to be.