BY MATTHEW WIMBERLEY
What could I tell you
of bombs? I don’t know
how to sheathe lightning,
what it takes. What it takes.
Years before I learned to drive—
in an ’88 Jeep Wrangler
manual, three-on-a-tree shifter
seats rusted to the floor,
I spent two days in a classroom.
No one spoke. We watched
fire replay itself over and over.
Our bodies not grown—hearts pumping
blood, a hundred thousand miles
of vessels woven around each bone.
On the televisions, towers fell
and re-fell every half hour,
the mindless collapse as sure
as waves pulled to shore.
I know nothing of bombs,
of dark eyed light jewels
over a desert loaded
with explosives and silence.
What I could tell you—those birds
in the yard each winter are juncos.
See how they move like ash
through the forest, through