Drone
By Gary Lemons
The veiled shape is a grandmother
To the young boys working beside
Her—packing stones from the field
On the journey toward subsistence.
Above them the Hindu Kush
Disappears behind storm clouds the color of
Milk in a metal pail.
The grandfather is grinding
Blades the way time sharpens
Distrust—the stones fall
From the mountains all winter—
Almost always at night—
The sound of them ganging up
On starlight leaves a musical note
Like jostled skewers.
There’s nothing militant
Here unless the noise of a shovel
Is the voice of heresy—
The missile enters the poem
The way a horse defecates on an ant colony
Simply because everything is
Where it is when shit happens—
If I were writing this poem
I’d ignore the falcon hunting
What small life escapes the heat signature
Because it’s pushed by million-year-
Old imperatives and unlike
Us it has no off switch.
This is where the poem
Fails—where all literature fails—
To thirst sufficiently to drink the last drip
From the cold faucet attached
To the executioner’s heart.
Copyright Credit: Gary Lemons, "Drone" from The Weight of Light. Copyright © 2017 by Gary Lemons. Reprinted by permission of Red Hen Press.
Source: The Weight of Light (Red Hen Press, 2017)