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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