Saturday, June 25, 2016

Soviet Pilot Bing Loved

NOTE: It's been months since I visited my own blog. Parlty because of recovery from broken hip.  This poem fro my book, Sweeping The Sky.

    Soviet Pilet Being Loved

Didn't we ever lie back, our
arms, our legs outspread like wings
and rise to pleasure as some
comrade-lover-airman-officer was entering?
Of course we did — some of us — but
we began to feel
we should be flying, not
lying upside down
on the runway,
grounded again.

I found myself remembering
how I'd rolled to the right
and up under the bomber's belly,
my fighter's cannon and machine guns
pulsing. After he left
I borrowed a broom

and swept out the room.

(I still have a few copies on hand. The favorite of my own efforts.)

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