Choose Sides
[ ? ] Us
[ ? ] Them
[ ? ] Other
[ ? ] Us
[ ? ] Them
[ ? ] Other
Children: look away
Adults--do not speak
Conscience . . . do not listen.
At twilight, the heat becomes a giant
A giant squeezing breath from my lungs
My lungs that soak up poison like a sponge
A sponge dipped in blood fouled by poison
By poison that leaks through my eyes and mouth
I am compelled to speak of what I saw
I saw a powder flash of curved light
Curved light wider than Montana sky
Montana sky now ash darkened burnt bare
Burnt bare of clouds and stars and rain
I am compelled to speak of what I saw
I saw at twilight the sterile shrines
Shrines at Mesa Verde and Los Alamos
Los Alamos that no American could forget
Forget like a tumor eating at the brain
The brain monitoring all but itself
I am compelled to speak of what I saw
I saw Arachne's daughter at her web
Her web of grey silk spun with pride
With pride that gods assume in work
In work hammered hot from Vulcan's fires
Fires that bubbled in gaseous plasmas
Plasmas our Einsteins understood
Hot winds howl across oceans steaming
Steaming through the cumbersome night
Night that soothes not with dew or stars
Stars that tremble blue in the wind
The wind that shakes the maple leaves
The leaves that throw shadows on the wall
On the wall that vanishes in the light
Correspondence and Permissions: James S. Oppenheim
A southwind turns the grass north;
A moon witholds the ocean;
So am I tethered to this woman's heart,
Her circle of love, her call
All couples walk without speaking
Near this edge; all stroll without
Picking up shells or turning
To touch with sight for reassurance,
So little is sure and less is known
Of this freedom to wake in the morning
Changed
Away from the water, the dunes,
Not so high, give way to rusty marsh,
The first forest of a continent,
First power line, first long breakwater;
We make our lives habitable
And awful, or pleasant in a way
Far worse than awful
I wish to leave, to make of myself
Another self; not clay but finest sand
Correspondence and Permissions: James S. Oppenheim
A green shade the wind moves
On currents of ash and smoke
White as cancer, dry as bone
My evening hour is spent
Meditating, inhaling
Birds sing mysterious codes
Branches sway their dark leaves
Moths gather at the porch lamp
Correspondence and Permissions: James S. Oppenheim
I like that animal you--
Your horse laugh
Pig tails, crow's feet,
Your sweet monkey's face
With which you delice my heart.
