An Invasion
We waited and waited, or by we
maybe I mean I, to be invaded–
promised by Reagan, by Revelations,
by everything I thought we knew
about the Russians, even
by the way our play with
dump trucks and stick guns
always gave in to expectation,
a plateau I couldn’t quite
play my way to–a truth.
So the first surge of worms
that brailled the catalpa tree,
army green, read enemy,
and I found out how to mount
that fantastic, cinematic attack
that brought no more hurt
than a shudder’s worth–one rush
of my hand up the rough trunk,
and they cascaded into the pan
that transported them toward
the garage door, leaking dark
like a castle wall. On the porch floor,
cement swept empty, I made
ragged, prison grids of them,
but they scattered past patterns.
With the gold-colored bulldozer,
too rust-warted to be a toy,
I ran them down, found no
secrets, no future, just guts
the lima shade of their outsides.
But how great, I thought and felt
then, powered by fear, for
however many hours (if it
was even one), to see nothing
under a surface to hurt us,
nothing clutching a god or a plot
that might steamroll our freedom,
or our war. I don’t remember
making any graves, or pouring
them into the field of our yard.
I do remember, do I?, before
they were hurt, they made shapes
more shiveringly moving
to me than words. And then
I made them stop moving.
