TRIPTYCH: AIR PATTERNS

 

I.


Look up at the swarm of colormass, the cluttered

 

Upswing of the world in the predawn hours

 

Thousands of balloons in one pitch rise, all in rotation

 

As if floating along the same

 

Watercourse guidepost, an unmatched current

 

Ribbing and cackling crowds fill the fields

 

Above, traffic jams of well-manned, wingless

 

Vessels forge, one by one, their own trajectories

 

Each privy to weight, whim, gust

 

II.

 

Rib bones snap

with a crack crushed

by the horseís bulk,

its sweaty heaving.

The bodies lie, large

and small hearts

pounding against

another in a unified

death. Hours drain

the manís body of

blood and sound,

the crown of his head

pooled in sticky

memory, a muddling.

While the horse

will lie for days,

leg splintered, side

sore from the body

beneath. Helicopters

come later, swirl

over the mountain

 in pitched rotations,

drop searchers down

into the passes. Voices

hammer the hillsides.

Watercourse paths yield

nothing, instead

itís the buzzards,

winging off the bodies.

 

III.

 

Ribbing and cracking on the live wire

 

 

            we scoot above

 

 

                  in pious rotations

 

 

      shadow the valleyís

 

watercourse

            waiting           

                        and then

 

                  winging off

 

________________________________________


Rebecca Morgan Frank is the author of Little Murders Everywhere (Salmon 2012), and her poems have appeared in such places as Guernica, Ploughshares, Bat City, Crazyhorse, Post Road, and Best New Poets 2008. She is an assistant professor at the University of Southern Mississippi and the co-founder and editor of the online magazine Memorious.