Poem: Aeromancy
Updated: Apr 8
The town has lost its bell
With its fathers inside—
What then is the ringing at
This funeral? Possibly I am
Not myself. Whose laughing
Has become this parade?
If you were to break into
The set-back, immense houses,
You’d have your run of
Things no one’s coming home for
Anyway. Girls go by
Twirling wooden guns;
Dead soldiers go by twirling
Dead soldiers. Nearby,
A kid’s face turns purple
From colored ice—wish
It different, under trees over
Our graves. Our bodies—
The floats turning away onto
Side streets, into the house
I grew up in. The house I
Will die in. A man sweeping,
A mother looking for
Her children, a whistle leading
Traffic back onto Main Street.
Two blocks over and moving
Away, a brassy drum. The sound,
A porch swing, keeping time.
This poem is one of a few that was not precipitated by an acutely stressful time in my life. It fell out of my head on a beautiful day in Bristol, Rhode Island. (The photo is not from there, nor it is mine. All thanks to Wikimedia.)
My wife-to-be was in an internship at Copper Canyon in Port Townsend, Washington. I was on the opposite side of the country. And, apparently, I was in proximity to the nation's oldest ongoing July 4 parade. (That distinction is debated, of course.)
I don't think I need to say anything about our present, our country, guns... I think it's all there. Though, to be honest, I was not then thinking about mass shootings as much as I am now...
Originally published, in slightly different format, in Bat City Review.