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By Molly Scott


Of bees,
of wires,
of furnaces in winter and
invisible insects on a summer afternoon
of sleekly slant-winged robots
pilotless above brown crusted mountain ranges
siting the wedding party, the caravan, the kids
playing in yards who never see or hear them
until the world’s on fire and gone and they–
the drones– are homing back into their hangers
none the worse for wear

they’re coming back to hands that pulled and pushed
their levers of control, then punched the time clock out
and turned the wheel of the car to drive
to pick the kids up at their soccer games in town
and pick up groceries at the store, drive to the house with the green
lawn to cook the dinner for the kids, the spouse,
seeing their faces with

these eyes that nine to five have watched the screen
and seen those other faces blownup disappear
then typing up reports that wrap this seeing down
in language torqued to show
no blood no bone

and so we wall it off  won’t take it home,
must not remember what we’ve seen
must never mind the mind that knows the missions
that the death birds fly under our hand
or scenes that dreams will open when day-walls fall down
the red flesh splattering brown ground, the sound
of people screaming, throat mouths wailing sirens of alarm
for what we‘ve learned to suffer soundless and

endure our knowledge of this deadly virus from the sky
for which there seems
no end no cure



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