Stunned

PUUUU PANJWAI, Afghanistan — Stalking from home
PUUUU to home, a U. S. Army sergeant methodically
PUUUU killed at least 16 civilians, 9 of them children,
PUUUU …early on Sunday.
PUUUUUUU —The New York Times, March 11, 2012

Saffron daffodils three and four deep
line the low-slung factory’s white-washed
wall like spectators along a parade route

watching as we wander to an art exhibit.
They have exploded three weeks early
and seem surprised to see our passing,

their breeze-tossed faces long rows
of ruffled O’s aglow in the spotlight
of the daylight-saving sun. We all

were stunned that mid-week morning
several oddly mellow days ago to awaken
to the Southwest desert’s weather skewed

toward winter Michigan, to children heading
for school in T-shirts and plastic sandals,
our spring relief reserved for late April

arriving in force in early March. It’s eerily
just like summer, with highs near eighty,
and as we walk I’m astounded by my body,

how it knows to bully my sullen disposition
to get over it as if I’d already survived
the blizzards, shoveling, and lingering slush.

But it’s also spring break and warmer by
fifteen degrees than Daytona or San Diego,
and last Sunday, even across the ice-cold lake,

short-sleeved Chicagoans shopped in droves,
and tulips in the short-fenced beds beside
the bus stops were already half-a-foot tall.

In sympathy I’ve warned my Afghani students
not to fall for this unseasonable withdrawal
of the arctic’s brutal jet-stream occupation,

that they likely haven’t seen the vicious last
of what assaults us every winter, what
most certainly will bewilder them once again.

GNATS

Evening fire sparking over Sutro’s rim,
igniting cirrus dragons drifting away from the sun.
Jules and I, enthralled.
Sitting placid on the stoop outside our home.
Cuddling.

They swarm out of the alley from behind.
Catching us. Latching hold onto each
of our struggling limbs.
Like gnats they buzz: “Faggots!”
Stuff socks in our mouths.
Drag us to dark playgrounds, the depth of sandboxes.

Fists in our faces. Cleats. Blood. Pipes.
Bone splinters under their boots.
Cold chains gird my torso. Handcuffs biting wrists.
One yanks my hair back:
“Look what happens to motherfucking queers!”

They rip Jules’ pants apart. Jules’ teeth buried in cotton.
Fingers splayed, broken. Knees popped out of sockets.
Ass opened.

Laughing. Noses dripping.
One forces my eyelids like a glassless monocle.
Jagged bottle crammed past Jules’ sphincter.
Jules passing out.
Leather circling around. Beating shafts of meat.
Ejaculating on Jules. Laughing.

Jules coughing. Crawling.

As they flit past his sod-bed,
Jules swats at gnats.

MADE HIM STRONG

From an early age, he knew he was not, could not be,
like other boys. He was fine with that. It made him strong.