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  • Writer's pictureHaines Eason

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.

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