by W. Luther Jett
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| Satellite images show bodies lay in Bucha for weeks, despite Russian claims. —The New York Times, April 4, 2022 |
Let’s pretend the moon
is made from cheese, and bees
go there when they die,
and the river runs backward
on alternate weeks, and, oh,
the tallest peaks
are covered in ice cream—
you could climb them in just
ten giant steps—or fly.
Yes, let’s pretend that we
can fly. Also, let’s pretend
that summer will have no end.
The rifle isn’t loaded. Those
are not dead bodies there,
bloating in the city square.
W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland and a retired special educator. His poetry has been published in numerous journals as well as several anthologies. He is the author of four poetry chapbooks: Not Quite: Poems Written in Search of My Father (Finishing Line Press 2015), Our Situation (Prolific Press 2018), Everyone Disappears (Finishing Line Press 2020), and Little Wars (Kelsay Books 2021).
