This poem will begin momentarily
above the skyline of the city
an orange-yellow flash,
shattering glass, I lift my lips from
my lover’s navel, inhale her
wet, morning scent, black oily smoke,
alarms and sirens.
These things happen at once.
Not far from one another
they happen and no actors are be used
in the bombings, or the television
recapping of causalities. The scores of Sunday’s
games glide across the screen.
When I lift my eyes again
and gaze over the plain of her
the Dow Jones is up 1%,
and translucent spheres swarm her
shoulders, her head, her breasts
in each sphere something
I’ve witnessed in real life
or through a screen
a girl carrying an ember on a leaf
through the gray drizzle of dawn
a boy shitting in rubble
a dog sniffing and eating it
snow rocking down through a halo of streetlight
onto the black avenue of a woman’s hair.
And there are more and more spheres
I can’t stop seeing
a man pass his daughter through barbed wire
a child’s limp body turned in the surf
spheres filled with nights of bombings
the ash trees along the river
strewn with clothes and plastic chairs
an apartment building
whose façade is blown off
in which a family can be seen
watching television, a boy on television
writing his name with a sparkler.
He doesn’t know the bombs his country spends
in other places, he does not know
I lay with my lover, frightened electricity
flickering in the wires of me.