My plane playing in the
sliding above the runway like repelling magnets,
flaring for a greasy-good landing.
Ripping a ceiling out,
charred and soggy, biceps burning,
after fire devoured it
like a kerosene-covered match.
Wrapping my arms around my Marine after
nine months, void and ache replaced with
Toes and fingertips hugging
leathery, raspy skin
of a balance beam,
sticking the last routine
chalk clouds stain my streaked face.
My guitar ringing out
a harp in the halls of my aorta,
hands finally strong enough
fingers finally calloused enough
to hold an F chord.
Under the oak tree,
wincing through light at
the longest branch
sans tire swing, now
blackbirds drown out the roaring wind.