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.)