by Thomas D. Reynolds
In this world,
Even mistakes are sacred.
Not even pounding fists can protest
What even the children can’t feel.
Lies are little birds that flock
Around a raindrop on one fallen leaf,
Every beak frozen before the feast.
Sometimes I walk upon the clouds,
Beyond houses shaped like faces
With shuttered eyes and cavern mouths.
Even sheltered beneath the rocks,
With legs gathered up like serpents,
I can taste the acid on their tongues,
Feel percussion beneath my skin,
Combustible backfire of their misteach.
Only at night, watching offspring
Dangle from limbs already practicing
Their executions scheduled by stars,
Can I see dim outlines of an alien ship,
With the breadth of a shadowy country
And no windows except for the cockpit,
As the captain’s breath fogs the glass
And the myriads kidnapped inside
Oblivious to his decision to hover,
Make like a protector, then destroy.
Thomas D. Reynolds received an MFA in creative writing from Wichita State University, currently teaches at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas, and has published poems in various print and online journals, including New Delta Review, Alabama Literary Review, Aethlon-The Journal of Sport Literature, Flint Hills Review, The MacGuffin, The Cape Rock, The Pedestal Magazine, Eclectica, Strange Horizons, Combat, 3rd Muse Poetry Journal, and Ash Canyon Review.
