Another View From Serendib

Helicopters fly over my house
olive green dragonflies
		pregnant with bloody bodies 
who had the misfortune
to take the wrong bus.

Their blades chop and thump the air
a chanted rhythm "Trouble and blood
Trouble and blood"
One could dance to it--if one were mad--
		a formal pas de deux of betrayal
with a stage set of mangled
		blackened pieces of buses
		and body parts unwillingly
		unwittingly discarded by their owners
set against a swirling backdrop
of rising blood, smoke and settling dust.

In my kitchen I make tea
boiled water  two spoons of milk powder
and two spoons of sugar.
I kill ants and think
"how do the bodies lie now?
How are the hands--
upturned empty cups?
or vices that hold together
the edges of a wound from which
blue-veined intestines slip oh too easily?"

I listen to the helicopter rhythm cease
the dancers held in stasis  only the backdrop
continues to move.

In my kitchen  I make tea
two spoons of sugar and two
spoons of milk powder.
I think of the doctor's face deciding
which wound to tend first: The Arm
from which cooked flesh hangs
on the bone like laundry
on a white clothesline
or The Leg which, missing its foot,
leaks blood like an old water tap.

I hear again the helicopter rhythm
through which mad dancers slide
Trouble and blood Trouble
In my kitchen I make tea
two spoons of sugar two
spoons of ant poison.
I wonder when I will be asked
		to dance.


Smokey Joe's Poetry Corner

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Copyright © 1988 C.Diane Thompson

Copyright © 1997 Timothy M. Radonich