| when the air was good, she was green. the lion boys would wax her to a sheen. call her beatrice and pose on her hood for pictures. measle patterned, she merged with the earth. only sank an inch under all the cables. wore the tallies on her door proudly --the company kept score: grease deathheads for every lucky shell. they broke a bottle on her wheel well after winning the first two wars. i know her inside out. i used to work her belly for a paycheck, in the hangars, on my back. afternoon naps in the shade of her armored hips. and when she'd shrink down the runways, dancing in heatwaves, i'd twirl my wrench. wish her many kills. now, the rubbers gone. the metals red and raw, porous as cotton. gnawed in the open. rotten. windows etched from within. glass is alabaster, shines like abalone. oh, beatrice. poor girl, propped there so lonely. being slowly digested, losing her anatomy. she sticks in the fucking muck. but water needs fetching, thousands are buried alive, and i'm winded. i'll keep her filters drained. i'll wipe off the rain, the lemon juice sent down from heaven. wrap her up in burlap, never let the stuff reach her engine. i keep her running, she keeps me on the run. there are screams on the east horizon-- toss the eighth tank. our haul never ends. |