[34] Two Poems, Bruce McRae

Space Weather

A rain of heated rocks and antimatter,
alarmed citizens dashing for shelter,
cursing the gods and government,
the weathergirl nodding off in her chair,
electromagnetic hail playing havoc
with satellites and phone reception,
the old crone banging her television,
its screen clouded over with static hiss,
cosmic rays and solar flares
all part of a bigger picture,
those falling stars not stars at all,
unmoved by the whims of prediction.

 

Pocket

Reaching in
I pull out a tooth,
a lead toy soldier,
a map of chaos,
smudged instructions.

Reaching down
I can touch
the Earth, a moon,
two godheads,
three spiders’ breaths,
the frozen juices
found on Ganymede.

In my pocket
I carry your name,
a magical pebble,
a gram of opium.
And the very bullet
from the very gun
used to slaughter
the last of innocence.

It feels like
a hole or ice to me.
It feels like
blood on my hands.

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