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Joshua Bennet & Alysia Harris
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Wings II
It's hard enough to walk. Try learning to exterminate. In the desert, there is no difference between a helicopter and a hummingbird. No families or faith to keep our souls pressed firmly to the ground. So we become falcons with firearms.
Flight's not in man's nature, so we mock birds with our feet.
Heaven's eye on the sparrow, so much so that it can't see the war zone.
Some say we are reckless, but how many of us are flightless?
No option but to dig in the dirt, so poor become both trigger and target, both villain and martyr. We imagine ourselves as angels of war, claiming to hear God in the gunfire, with hands pressed firmly over our hearts. I know nothing of children, only shards of infant flesh falling like confetti at our feet. I sacrificed the spirits I never knew, before I traded compassion for combat boots.
For some of us, battlefields are the closest things to heaven. The only place where blue angels dance with devils,birds with the feathers flock together, that's why we travel in squadrons. Kamikaze swan dive into the thick of the fight, don't care how many mother geese or baby chicks die tonight, 'Always protect the Eagle!'.
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How do you tell an 18 year old boy not to point under the pressure of Empire? When crosshairs grow crosses, that no one else can bare, but hand grenades are so much easier to hold, than prayers. So, I don't know if our Lord can hear over the sounding solos of all these bombs. Because here, wings only mean one thing. Not salvation, but death. A black hawk becomes the sweet chariot to carry you home. A flock of triggers flutter in unison.
Can you hear the drone? Musical moments when bones pop out of sockets, literally. Limbs etching our blood type on the wing. Can you read the writings on the wall? Only here are we airbourne. Wondering's for the weak, walking's for the meak. Every time my feet touch these streets, it reminds me that I'm mortal, but Uncle Sam gave me wings, when he turned my bones into sickles, eyes into missiles. I'm the Angel of Death. Remember, ground up into these boots, and I don't want to take a life. We shoot, because sometimes, bullets are the only hope you have.
When children vanish in the middle of the night and landmines replace bloodlines, Robin Rockets whistling through the horizon to break the necks, of little boys that can't help but stare at the chaos. Forget lynching, lynching was so last century. Forget levitate, a 50 caliber can make a grown man disintegrate.
If a missile drops in the middle of the desert, does anybody hear it? Yes. It sounds like a generation of American boys trying to hatch, without bombs spilling their yokes. It sounds like a generation of Iraqi girls trying to catch a final glance at the sky, before everything goes up in smoke. It sounds like a mother, who can't have an open casket for her son, because he looks too much like a firework display. Slumped at the spine, writing love letters to a leg that will always be marked 'Return to sender', like an amputee. Who wants to stretch his wing span, only there's no feathers left to flap.
Flags aren't the only thing that fly half masked. Wingless warriors, with phantom limbs, that still cradle that M-16, he held like a lover. Hoping that its rhythm would rock him to sleep. Soldiers are tired of dying, nesting in caskets, threshed to death. Mockingbirds killed by a 21 gun salute, and so we fly, to keep the dirt off our boots.
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