Saturday, August 18, 2007

Airraid Drill

The steel feathers and the war-torn pantry
and the bent leaves that broke in the brittle night
as we huddled like caterpillars under the bulb
among the canned peas and the red boxes
of Duz that shone like icons on the swaybacked
shelves, and over the hedges the imaginary
buzz of the engines that soaked up the silence
and droned in the backs of our legs . . . . I can hear the whistle
or the light and the door closing firmly behind
me and what was nothing to me was the sea bursting
and the sidewalks cracking, and the game started,
or ended, when the three of us hugged dearly and the darkness
tittered and my father leaned through the light and listened
for the earth wheezing and the buds throbbing on the trees.

(This poem appeared in College English.)

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