Fallen Debris (poem)

Fallen Debris

Or going up the steps, an appointment

wanting shade on a glaring day’s walk

a drinking fountain, a toilet

a cup of coffee, a quick shop

Or sucked into a slamming missile’s void

Or cultured into drinking hard

Pulling stunts, splashing down head first

Pressure insufficient at shallow depth

To locate right-side-up before lungs burst

Or become the missile, wandering from a cloud

Or pulled beside the road, flares lit

Hearing the choral sigh of rolling tires

Scale higher into a dirge, flung back

“My God,” you say. “My God,” you say. “My God.”

Or bolted down a bankment, staring up

Or aided with the pen you cannot guide

You by the radio, fingertips tuned to nicks

the girl knives on, at your instruction, red wire, black

and what is fair to ask of the perfumed aisles

Or whether you are the war, in your ruined eyes

Fallen Debris

Iron

(2024, Stephanie Foster)