Lady Bombardier

Image

The moon hung like a heavy fist
bruised and marble boned white
as we walked home leaning into the night
like drunk mortar tubes
lobbing bombs of noisy light into the black

You spinning arcs on stolen roller skates
and me moving through angles of air into quiet corners
smoked out of my mind on your blonde and
your reach

I know that this is not
how it happened but
let me remember it this way
let me speak a summer fake tan over these pale bones
the real of me would be a rock I couldn’t choke down
or out

Today at Southbank a choir of perfect urban Buddhists
did their best to sing the traffic of
noise into a sky’s blue and looming quiet
their throats exploding in song
and rolling down to the river

and I imagined us sky buried
our boney anchors pulled loose
carved out and carried away
by holy Tibetan vultures

I have given up trying to quiet this thing
inside me
I have given up on quiet sky

Here tonight
beneath the sweat slick
and gecko tongue clicks
of summer’s slow dissolve
you unfold from the corners
with gun powder wings and
ripped silk skin

I move beneath you
a boneyard of missing ribs
and a suicide bomb’s promise

And my eyes fall on the bruised knuckle of the moon again
and I see perched on its back a smug Tibetan vulture
my jawbone clenched in his beak
and I see this is where our voices go when we are dead

But we are not the dead
we are perfect terrible noise
we are cannons charged with noisy bees
we are the terror of a gun in a drunk’s unlocked closet
we are the machinery of a wave about to break
we are tongues turned back to angry harpoons
we are sweaty sticks of dynamite  
and murderers of quiet

Let us sing a choir of blood roar
of hurricane howl
and slick midnight slap

Lady bombardier

Show me the bombs in my throat
show me your cordite tongue
and light me up

Show me your war paint
point me at that bruised moon
and I’ll blow that bird away 

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