Poem: M-16

 

 

 

M-16

no smile disturbs you, except a trigger,

and that is small and sideways,

a black seed that never grew

into the spell of a crescent moon. 

 

are you displeased, being the key

to great broken cities, not honored with a podium?

 

you stand on weeping rubble and look down

between the last eyes of souls:

 

of soldiers

who thought they had mastered you.

of men half as sure,

their whiskers ashes of a rose.

of women

who won’t seek comfort in your reach.

of babies loud

against a parent’s agonized breast.

 

the only thing the same color as you

lived in Florida thirty years ago,

inside a tupelo bush.

 

obsidian scales gleaming in

the wet drugged sun, the king snake

mesmerized bird and child,

black lightning too slow, and then,

more than suddenly, riling green clouds,

lord of the killer flash, a smoke of coils--

 

and barely a glimpse of bright plumage

to see.

 

 

 

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The M-16 is a standard rifle of the US Army.  I thought about calling this poem, "Assault Rifle"