A Gathering at Ground Zero
Flo,
the show is over.
Broadway at Columbus,
bodies for
the big blowout.
Flo,
Ziggy Stardust
much bolder.
A man plays Fanny in drag.
But still same old horny party hats.
Still same old happy, happy,
Guttered wine,
Prescription whiskey.
Flo, know.
This big blast may be the last.
The crash just outside the door.
All you have to do is knock,
and old man lava roll you over,
with a hydrogen cocktail,
green olive detonator.
Petroglyphs
Sometimes you say
you can see the bears go in and out,
and I can see you
set the traps around my mouth.
Sometimes I can see
your flashlight as you
interpret the scrawl on the walls,
sometimes you add to the graffiti.
“Left by some Indian
2,000 years ago,”
and I invite you
to canoe in my saliva
The river
joins our lips,
the tips of our fingers
grasp the edge through the rapids
In the whirl we flip
and the eclipse of our kiss
slips
and bliss gently pulls us under
Silo 218
I have tunneled through
to sanctuary.
I stare at my bedroom wall,
the closed door,
“Ich bin ein Berliner.”
My mother has secret missiles
aimed at me
from the silo across the hall.
My father passed out
on the living room couch,
dreams about
watching television.
I turn the lights out,
pull down the black shades,
balance the transistor radio
on my chest.
I listen for the all-clear signal.
I wait for
“This has been a test.”
There has been no explosion.
Cold War.
Cold War.
The Balance of Terror.
Each of us in separate silos.
He put his hand on the button.
She put her hand on the button.
I put my hand on the button.
No one pushed.
