The Requiem of Flight
|
"Break break break. All stations, this is Provider Mike. We have a Fallen Angel. |
- You were ripping back the velcro,
twisting your shoulders loose,
trousers dissolved, and sleeves
in dusk when I found you—
gunner with a fistful of tissue
shoved in your pocket.
It's too heavy, you said.
Yes, it is heavy.
Flak jackets only protect against a certain kind of wound:
- Once, wrapped in tiles
of ballistic porcelain
(that cumbersome crust of clay)
six magazines and a first aid pouch
woven into place, I perched
on a medical scale
and counted
sixty pounds of armor.
for example, traumas of shrapnel and bullets fired from far enough away;
- I taught you, then, how to pee
with your back pressed
snug against a dented grille,
dodging that impossible trick
of balance altogether,
without removing your vest.
they offer no resistance to the impact of remembering
- Given the appropriate map,
could you triangulate your position
from the minaret that marks
this crescent mire and the fuselage
of the bird at your feet?
What kind of compass
can trace the azimuth from where you stand
to Gambler's ribs, soot black,
peeking through the requiem
of flight...
the things we knew before we left the wire; such wisdom,
- Your hands were the smallest,
good for wedging into the dark places
a wrench would not go.
Your arms, though, were thick
with muscle, capable
of holding up so much,
sweetness tempered
by those fierce shoulders
thrown against a gut.
such fractures leave perennial marks:
- Cut away the soft
the gentle tendencies,
derive the gravity of as many
Fallen Angels as it takes
to offset the instinct
for feeling,
condense yourself toward
the consistency
and solemn mass
of stone: so scant and dim,
the hibernating spark,
that you are safe.
Ace and Gambler more or less gathered into sacks.
- Greasy smear of debris
indistinct as exhaust,
unfurling Apache Longbow
helicopter on patrol.
We came for it, for remnants,
but the bodies could not be extracted.
Impossible to say
if they melted with machine
before our controlled
detonation or after,
but after, the only parts
that could be isolated
were the smell of smoke-fired meat,
the sickening flavor
of that smoked-meat smell
upon the tongue, and those spindly ribs
protruding from the vessel's
ruined heart.
Who will sift them? Who will fold their flags?
- If there were rabbits here
instead of stray dogs,
you might find the ten-digit grid
of a warren to crawl inside,
a burrow to hold you
(or a foxhole dug just
where the airfoils fell
and x-ed the spot
that takes you home)
and if you could sink below
that tainted soil
until you learned the spell for
big enough
then, maybe, you could carry this
for all of us.
