ENVIRONMENTAL Poem: Bombs/Crops, by Toms Russ

To preserve something you have to love it. / To cradle a parasite the host
must be warm / and ready to breathe in fire. / What now makes the
ground stretch with life / used to come packed in shrapnel / in heat that
could not be moved. / The Man is in the attic and he is preparing his box
of tools / he will drill the screwdriver to set the ground ablaze / he will
snip the scissors and send the children to their graves / To preserve
something you have to covet it first. / Sometimes destruction makes a
beautiful movie / and efficient fertilizer, too. / The Man curves his mouth
around an idea / and calls it an epiphany, / but it’s just as original as
when we pried dark matter from space / and called it dark matter. / To
preserve something you have to become a host / and let the parasite latch.
/ Children run into the explosion / thinking the inferno is a firework /
and their arms loop in a circle, / their fingertips curved toward the
crowns of their heads / like a heart / or a very unlucky pose to be
fossilized within / when detonation strikes. / The Man calls his way of
life living / and anything else / is a sure / fire / way to go. / He loves the
sweet scent of ammonia / and can almost trade controversiality / for the
satisfaction he gets by / tonguing out corn from between his teeth.

Author: poetryfest

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