Poems by Michael J. Whelan (Ireland)

Published in issue 39 of The Ofi Press

RETRIBUTION

Inside the citadel

cinders flickered in the dusk,

sparks rose up from the ashes

like desperate ghosts escaping the future.

Outside, on the gathering hills,

while the city smoked,

the embers of burning history

glowed in the growing dark.

Out there you huddled with your great guns

around the warmth of thirsty fires,

boots off, souls circling the forgiving heat

as you vanquished past enemies,

relived victories, dismissed defeats

and gloried in the new justice

your liberations would soon bring

on the people within.

The conquered would learn to accept

their new landscapes,

and you their liberators tapped cigarettes

into empty fingerprint shell casings

building up behind your crusade,

a brass trail of stained retribution

for all the world to see. 

There is this memory of violence,

this sand on Tel Aviv Beach,

like warm powder between my toes,

what I imagine the moon is like

when warmed by the sun, and I stand there,

white waves rolling in like silent dreams

I haven’t had yet, the sea distorting the curve.

I wake suddenly to a blue sky,

welcome myself again to the great

encapsulating dome of reality,

the peace torn by a low flying jet

dropping strings of chaff, bursting

through the valley to hide safely behind the hills,

mission complete, ordinance delivered over Beirut.

I welcome myself back again,

collect my bearings,

remember where it is I am.

The pilot will be home soon.

I count the days.