By Jill Wright
This morning with you,
I came and came and came.
Outside, the sidewalk folded up and crinkled
like a walnut with the heat
Two blocks from here, crumpled
desperate people on the sidewalk, dressed
in layers of mylar and rags
are talking to brick walls and waving their hands.
They know. The red is coming.
They feel it in this unseasonable heat wave
the sky bleeding heat at midnight, raging inferno
at dawn.
Later, I stood in the kitchen
nearly naked, frying bacon and you
turned young and lean, standing
in the doorway and you said
"Why bother? Why not just write the poetry
on bathroom walls and sidewalks? No one
reads poetry books anymore." And I said,
"I'm writing it on the sheets."
Outside, the air gets thinner and thinner and
electronic wiring passing through our kitchen
and our hearts, is stringing us up
like puppets.
I hate this war.
We have Cluster bombs and depleted uranium,
nanophysicists working around the clock
to unravel our DNA.
The Earth has trembling land and raucous brush fires
and volcanoes that take a million
years to erupt.
"We're on the wrong side," I say
feeding you bacon with my fingers.
"We should be on the side of kerosene
lamps and rattlesnakes and pencils."
"Vive La Revolution," you say, pulling on your jeans.
The red is coming.
