silent under her gray-swept wings
the wrinkled sands slide. over qalats, wadis,
waters, all the brown earth she slips, waiting
to go kinetic. in her belly the missile lies
primed, dreaming its dream of falling
death. through the impossible steel peaks
of the sky-stabbing Hindu Kush she weaves,
distant-glinting. at night she blots out the stars.
from her open bosom to the spinning earth
her thunderbolt screams, man-killing. woman-
killing. child-killing. on the valley floors
and in the fields of pink poppies bowing,
in this land when fathers shield their eyes
and look up, it is for her. when women look
down in the dirt they watch for her shadow.
some god must have left her here
a long time ago. a mechanical
fury. a hungry, fallen angel, gathering in.
G.P. Manson
G.P. lives in Alexandria, Virginia, where he writes poems and stories as he can in the midst of a very full life. He can be found at @aChildGrownOld.
