Hawk Parable
By Tyler Mills
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Hawk Parable - Tyler Mills
Hawk Parable
First Thing
You look like a monster, one woman said to another.
The woman was on fire. This is the first of two
screws twisted into a wall. One bus is sent
on its route minutes before the other. This
is the first. Thousands of soldiers were lowering
their faces to the grass, as though an exercise
can will an effect. People made their way
to the hospital: a doctor would look at them,
and then they could die. You can dip a line
of monofilament into a river. You can do
it twice. The first becomes a second. The second becomes
a third. Three girls stretched out their arms while the wind
sheared their flesh. Sheared, not seared, what was left.
I could have shown you a swimming pool lit with turquoise light.
It was early. It was a mission. It wasn’t the first.
The Sun Rising, Pacific Theatre
Here we have another moment of blue-sky thinking,
when no one loves you in the morning.
The tinderbox as empty as a train at 5 a.m.
It is 5 a.m.: a tin knife and fork packed in your pants,
you yank the sheets up where your neck
placed an envelope of nerves.
Acrid sky over us, streaked with the tar
blur of gasoline: the sky knows the machines
are being fed—that is blue-sky thinking,
when no one loves you less. I want to touch the raw
cloth of your coat sleeve while you put your body
inside it: it’s like I’m the voice from the beginning
of an opera that speaks from the ceiling
gilded with octagonal tiles to say, there are exits
on all sides. But you are moving like a wheel
riding over a rope, and your lover
is your hand, lacing up boots through their rusted portals.
The sky reminds me of nothing, the way it feels
staring into white curls of light combed through stones.
What I thought was a tinderbox is actually
a box of bullets. What you thought was the sun is the sun.
Negative Peeled from a Cardboard Album
For a moment,
soldiers