my mother sends a flag
a black sunflower
blooms on manila
against the bulletin board
of my childhood
war is not healthy
for children and other
living things wry comment
turned trite
by arching birdie
graphic and logo
*
from the gold-tipped dowel
hangs the flag
above the chalk tray
next to the classroom phone
we stand and syllabize
hands on hearts
some parents tell their kids
not to under God
not part of their plan
it is 1972
in Oakland, California,
United States of America
*
the Symbionese Liberation Army
shoots Dr. Foster
Superintendent of
the Oakland Public Schools
I am a tiny child
on a bench in the Oakland
Auditorium my mother
is sobbing beside me
another childhood moment
I didn’t understand:
Nixon resigning
the flag like folds of curtain
beside him
Dad plays a 45
of the men on the moon
their flag flat as metal
in the solar wind
*
television brings us
many burning flags
some burned by Americans
in camouflage and wheelchairs
some by men in nightgowns
who seem very excited
does not compute
familiar background image
all 35 years of my life
*
the tragedy
takes the nickname
of the number we dial
for emergencies
some months later
my mother sends a flag
I live in Europe now
and later on the phone
she says she felt defensive
putting it in the envelope
it arrives with a crease
*
sometimes our flag
has a golden fringe
around it
bright orange-yellow fringe
like a Number 2 pencil
*
a friend teaches grade school
I give her the flag
for her European classroom
one flag among many
their primary colors
their black
and white
*
I felt defensive too
opening that envelope
holding the stars and stripes
America far away
from the hope
of that girl
with her hand
on her heart
liberty and justice
for all
on her lips
for all
for all
for all
pages
outside the leaves
fibrillating in
the distance
staggered squares
a pixilated veil
over the face
of the witness
justice is a Barbie doll
to the poor rich man
with a taste for uniforms
and pain
releasing in exasperated tones
from behind the dead animal
on the desk
through the lantern jaw
the craggy voice
of the righteous
the civilizer,
cutter and
dryer
gasping out his foregone
conclusion facing
his deadline
and outside the leaves
are so high and paper-thin
yellow on blue sky
tiny flecks
against the ark
of the world
*
totally unexplained
above the counter
at the truck rental
a handpainted sign
like at a demonstration
magenta on electric blue:
I DO NOT LIKE
THAT GIRL
*
driven by the menu
to hunt and gather
to off ramp on ramp
to travel in circles
to go the wrong direction
then double back
not soaring like a bird
maneuvering like a wasp
full body slamming
against the
open
window
*
one leaf after another
curling like a tongue
shivering in the wind
constellations of leaves
syncopated
in the distance
staggered squares
of tower blocks swaying
like licorice ropes
nibbled by a
guilty dentist
*
behind my eyelids
the leaves still shimmer
descending circles
radiating outward
elapsing away
from the world
to the language
to the sequence of strokes
to the pages stacked
and squared
oh show me
the text that
blooms every year
like a tree
*
take a fresh breath of ether, leaf
the air keeps going you burn
the fire sweats water you run
the earth abides
unflinching
the light
scorches all
the ignorant armies
the moths
the rust
out of nowhere (Paradise Park)
Traveled days
of scary
desert spaces
to the statue
by tank slow
minutes spent
staging the photo
were televised
mixed message
desultory crowd
all male
just lingering
like extras
at the scene
later termed
jubilation
before looting
set in
the Marine
fumbled the flag
this time round
first dead soldier
in US uniform
born out of nowhere
in a small foreign
target of American
interest way back
in the 20th century.
This time his life ends
on the road
to Paradise Park.
Orphan of the conquered
caught by border guards
dies citizen-soldier.
The enemy was closer
than he knew.
*
lightning cacophony
of rain
colored sand
a mandala
funneling
order and beauty
exactly as much
as there is
is more than
enough
*
falling backwards
over the waterfall
of time
of age
the spray
and mist
the rocks
the sky
falling backwards
life after life
until we learn
to dive
*
the enemy is arming
the spaces between
the stars
there are statues
in orbit
flying tanks
lobsters boiling
on the bottom
of the sea
icebergs calving
a time of spectacular
outburst
cacophony elaborate
disguise
*
the war flew backwards
like a vacuum
and underneath the water
was a dune
its time was specific
as gravity
funnel sifting
its place
in the order.
The place is marked.
It cannot
be stopped.
*
You thought
we already
fell from
paradise
but those
were tales
of the future.
Desert spaces
will soon
surround us
completely
in battle plans
and clumsy drama.
To escape
the uniform
embrace of the
targeting
stars we must
not rocket
but dive
into the drought,
float for
many lives
return out of nowhere
as the raindrops,
man and woman
as the flood
as the boat. |
