Every Night We Hear Planes by J. Marcus Weekley

                        from a phrase in a letter by a French woman in They Speak for a Nation

their eagle business, dropping their exploding turds

on our little heads. But, we are only civilians and we don’t

know better. We flutter over broken streets, caught

by flashy windows with neon signs and never mind

the boards nailed over doors. Give us more bread,

giant eagles, less heavy loads. You could almost imagine

that they carry love letters, or better, lovers, in their claws,

and those letters, those lovers, will reach the hands

of everyone, everyone will hold and caress and stroke

the necks of those lovers and we will all die in the light

of a field in April. All those birds will land and never bear children

and we will remember the sound of birds overhead

when we tell our children how great and terrible life is.

 

J. Marcus Weekley, born in Chattanooga, TN, has lived in many states, countries, and imaginary lands, though he is currently flying over Mississippi. His writing is forthcoming (or newly published) in Across the Margin, bottle rockets, and Chrysanthemum, among others. Marcus has a collection of ekphrastic prose poems, Singing in the Merman Cemetery, forthcoming in 2018 from CW Books (preorders for fifteen bucks). Marcus also paints, photographs, and writes screenplays: www.flickr.com/photos/whynottryitagain2.

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