Bridie SST10 Draft 3

21 Jan

Six weeks into invasion, he was shot.
Smug “Unlucky” chimed
among rig burn and crash.

He’d ogled war films,
knew hero was a right
thing to do.                         What else
was there?                         For him,
no other vehicle.

You clutched his babies.
Before he left, I begged
“Don’t be                            a part.”
Cogs heaved.                     For us,
he believed and died.

You wished for foreign
ships swallowed by nukes,
I shrieked drunken points

at you. Like I’d never
cracked pipelines, spilled
sticky residue                    all over,
forgot to smell                  melting plastic.

You lay licking the slick
between your feathers,
drowning in the chop.

My magnifying glass-concentrated
lighthouse lamp singed,
didn’t help.

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