Bruce A. Jacobs – Ⅲ
Reconnaissance
The medics loiter,
stalled white clockwork.
The shock trauma copter
slouches on spring-loaded heels,
as if we, in our line
of stopped cars a mile long,
sit in the sun for nothing.
We abandon engines and loved ones
with our tinkered excuses,
peer down the embankment
at what’s left on the tracks:
shards of green motorcycle,
blue helmet on gravel, men in yellow
who slow-orbit a blue-jeaned thing.
We move our hands at each other,
strangers building a story:
There was a boy, a leap like
rocket graffiti, maybe gravel or blindness
between him and earth
for one bottomless instant,
a roar between worlds, then
a tree or a train.
Thin denim rag doll. Look:
Dead for sure.
We cling to the guard rail
here on the verge
of our mob’s dream,
a death freshly made, the meat
of the thing that awaits us.
He has been there, this boy,
in the screaming moment
when death sneaks past the present,
bursts in one side, out the other
and has us gone
before we’ve left.
We want an insider
in that country,
a driver to spy for us,
to lean into the windshield,
whisper back to us
how our motion will change,
how our glass will open
or shatter.
But all a body can tell us
– as yellow men bear it
uphill, boots first –
is that today a boy pulled on
his black leather boots,
yanked the thongs tight,
not knowing that he could have gone
naked, that shoes or skin would now
be nothing to him, his boots jutting
from a stretcher like lost luggage.
And so we fall back
from the guard rail, back
onto our heels. We wander to cars,
tell waiting companions that yes, someone
has died, we don’t know just how it went –
we couldn’t get quite close enough
to see.
The medics loiter,
stalled white clockwork.
The shock trauma copter
slouches on spring-loaded heels,
as if we, in our line
of stopped cars a mile long,
sit in the sun for nothing.
We abandon engines and loved ones
with our tinkered excuses,
peer down the embankment
at what’s left on the tracks:
shards of green motorcycle,
blue helmet on gravel, men in yellow
who slow-orbit a blue-jeaned thing.
We move our hands at each other,
strangers building a story:
There was a boy, a leap like
rocket graffiti, maybe gravel or blindness
between him and earth
for one bottomless instant,
a roar between worlds, then
a tree or a train.
Thin denim rag doll. Look:
Dead for sure.
We cling to the guard rail
here on the verge
of our mob’s dream,
a death freshly made, the meat
of the thing that awaits us.
He has been there, this boy,
in the screaming moment
when death sneaks past the present,
bursts in one side, out the other
and has us gone
before we’ve left.
We want an insider
in that country,
a driver to spy for us,
to lean into the windshield,
whisper back to us
how our motion will change,
how our glass will open
or shatter.
But all a body can tell us
– as yellow men bear it
uphill, boots first –
is that today a boy pulled on
his black leather boots,
yanked the thongs tight,
not knowing that he could have gone
naked, that shoes or skin would now
be nothing to him, his boots jutting
from a stretcher like lost luggage.
And so we fall back
from the guard rail, back
onto our heels. We wander to cars,
tell waiting companions that yes, someone
has died, we don’t know just how it went –
we couldn’t get quite close enough
to see.