The Storm
            The Enemy’s tranquilized body slung over your shoulder  
                                                                       like a leopard skin, a blazer, you 
                        walk down Main Street in the ticker-tape parade,  
                                                            greenish thunderheads growing,  
closing in, I don’t know which one of you I’d rather blow 
                                                                       then worship in my cell’s  
             guttering light: you have an M-16, body armor, a beard  
                                                           flecked with boy-blood, gold leaf,  
                                                                      ram-blood; he’s naked yet turbaned, 
                                             scruffy, hates our country. Our  
              Way of Life. But you love this land 
                                  with all your heart, fought  
                      for our freedom, almost made 
                                                           the ultimate sacrifice. 
He’s got more passion, verve, I could be his  
                                              thousandth virgin. But— 
                                    you came back, Soldier. 
                                               You came back for me 
                       like you promised. Drop him 
                                                            and carry me piggyback  
                       through the crowds. I’m the Chosen One! 
                                    I’m the Chosen One! I’d scream  
                                               like a brat,  
                        like a fucking queer. It’s clapping  
                                                           thunder now, drizzling. 
                                              Now pouring. Starlings scatter, 
                                                                       egrets and cormorants and 
                                              sparrows too, riding the wind, 
                                                                                    chanting or chirping  
                                   whatever’s left unsung 
                                                           of lust and love.  
                                                And the wind starts 
                                                                        to gust. Find your  
                                    bunker! Find your bunker!  
                                                            you call out  
                                                to the people,  
                                                            the multitudes, the squall  
                         would’ve forced me from your back…
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