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…