![]() The eucalyptus trees of my childhood line the sides of the highway. Hwy 1, Iraq’s Highway of Death, stretches through desert on one side and California’s San Joaquin Valley on the other. Guadalcanal emerges from the shadows where my grandfather lives. Cumulous scattered above them, their shapes authored by sunlight on the ground below. Bosnia and Vietnam and Iraq and Northern Ireland and Korea and Russia pressed together in the geography below. The fields, the orchards, the woodlands below press together the way countries on maps do, with coursing waterways paved roads and dirt tracks and furrows cutting through. I am 32,000 feet over the Atlantic seaboard. I am a drone aircraft plying the darkness above my body, flying over my wife as she sleeps beside me, over the curvature of the Earth, over the glens of Antrim and the Dalmatian coastline, the shells of Dubrovnik and Brcko and Mosul arcing in the air beside me, projectiles filled with poems and death and love.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Details
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |