Hawkeye by John Mungiello

Their wings spread, stretched, confident—

Catching kisses from a breath blown

By lips invisible. To them, every day is an anniversary,

The hawk, its own God, above us

Surveying its property, with

Knived vision choosing

Which one of us to swoop up. Against its prey,

The only prejudice is

The limp in my right leg. Their judgment based on necessity only,

Unlike the angels who fly through—above—

Underneath—careless, were they?

Yes. Leave me to the hawk instead

I prefer their judgment, a little less bitter.

Let them take me up

Their talons in

Open up lung—open up

I-don’t-mind-the-pain-the-pain-I-don’t-mind

Because maybe then,

Just before the end,

Just once

I could feel

Just once

What it would be like

To be above this virus, loved.

My first word.

Talk To Me by John Mungiello

Little mouths pucker.

Little mouths open.

Ready to speak,

I ask them,

“Will you kiss her hand?”

They respond with a gust…

Soft as cotton. But their answer is clear;

With what little they have left

They open a centimeter,

Giving her their water

Whistling their music. 

Little white bells ring

In my head, ring

Little white bells,

Not church bells—

There are no churches

Here anymore, at least not

Made by bricks or mortar…

No.

Those bells were all

Torn down by his orders. But these,

These little white bells

Continue to ring…

Continue to ring… 

With every cool push of wind,

They swing

Away from the plagued air,

Which in the past,

Carried them back. 

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