Another Blackbird Armageddon | Jenne Micale

At the start of yet another war

We sat on the brown carpet when they bombed
Baghdad. Someone made popcorn, probably Mom,
or maybe we were eating dinner–pork chops,
probably, with apple sauce–as we watched
lights streaking through the sky a world away
entertainment for middle class American
families who were footing the bill
although they never polled us and said: this, or
free college. This, or the future. This, or joy.

And some years later at another advent
the boss sent me with a notebook in my hand
to Our Lady of Peace. Taper candles bloomed,
people murmuring on their knees for peace
because they knew nothing about Afghanistan—
anything at all about the place, except
people lived there, and they had children, and
they would die from bullets and bombs lofted
by other children, maybe even their own,
who might also die. Their prayers didn’t work,
not even after seventeen years. No one
polled us then, either. No one polled the women
of Afghanistan, the chess-players in Iraq,
the kids who loved soccer or the flower vendor.

And now, under the onion domes, people
are praying, lighting those candles with that
peaceful smell that comes somehow from burning wax
in front of those shining gold icons and
in the streets wrapped in sheets of azure and gold
a representation of wheat fields under sky.
And others are watching the evening news
with popcorn and pork chops, watching the lights
and smoke much as we did a long time ago.

I’m not sure when prayers will ever start working.
I’m thinking that something more is required
than icons and wishes and incense, or chants
in the street. Someone needs to poll the people
of Russia, the people of Ukraine, all of us,
really, and say: this, or the face of your nephew,
this, or those gold wheat fields under the sky
this, or the stadium where you cheered on
your side and hugged in the pub afterward
this or your children, this or the future,
this or love. Because the prayers never work
so maybe we should start taking some polls. 

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The blackbird

I should offer prayers, I know, the heart’s alms
for the dying and the lost. So much pain
permeates, a choking smoke. And yet

today the first groundhog awoke, stumbled out
on the ice-smoothed ground without regret.
A blackbird sang on a distant tree.

So much we can snuff on a whim, candles
of lives burning their merry brightness
to light the gloom. Everywhere is a church,

each step a pilgrimage to the holy,
and yet I still can’t pray or bow my head.
I can’t fall onto my knees and beg

for who is there to listen to these
entreaties who isn’t already
listening to the blackbird and the bomb?

My heart yearns for a rifle, for a shield
and some bandages, my heart yearns for
body armor, bullets and a tank

and that’s quite the problem, isn’t it:
so many temples we burn to the ground
in the name of a grand idea.

But I’m no sniper; I flinch to kill bees,
even the groundhog that eats my garden
is spared with a grudging mercy.

Empty-handed, all I can offer
is love. Not a bullet nor a hex,
but only foolish love—for a bird,

for a rodent, for people I don’t know
crouching with rifles. As the boots approach
they hear a bird sing her prayer for the spring.

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Armageddon

The old man should do more—pound his frail fist
on the table, make the end happen, for
the prophets predicted this: you sifted
through the words, assigned each syllable
numbers and added them up. The word
of god never fails, you say, and the streak
through the sky the fire of those angels—
the ending of it all is just a sign
that your side has won. You’re so eager

for this ending, when the boss comes back
with those holes in his feet and a checklist.
His pure hand will wipe the burning world clean
and if you’re good, he’ll bring you back with him,
if you never doubted your gender or
kissed someone you shouldn’t have kissed, if you
had the right thoughts and believed the right things
back you go to your assigned desk, so good,
so very good you are, everyone smiles.

But I can’t help but wonder if someone
who devoted seven days to a project—
one this intense, with so many parts—
and finally kicked back, saying,“It’s good,
 it really is” and chuckled in awesome
delight would be keen on some kids
trashing it over some schoolyard taunt,
those fist-to-the-head arguments kids get
because their brains are still developing
and rage controls them like marionettes.

Did They spend so much time perfecting
the passionflower and the peacock, even
the tardigrades, just to let some argument
wipe it all out? A nuclear warhead
is a misappropriation of light,
turning enlightenment into something
obscene. Somehow it’s only important
your side wins and you get the corner desk.

People like me will burn anyway, you say,
or end up in that place with tardigrades
and starlings when heaven goes corporate.
But I wouldn’t be so eager for that
performance review if I were you.
You didn’t read the employee manual.

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©2023 Jenne Micale
All rights reserved

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