As Mahler’s Fourth moves through the air

I think of my grandfather, down on one knee

in blue overalls, tools beside him

behind the ancient refrigerator.

He would sit painfully through events

like this one, a tuxedo fundraiser

more social than beneficial,

his mind ungrounded, still in the war.

So much still needs fixing.

I see the grand chandelier

falling. Bass, kettle, truthful drum. 

Even the bomb-jaded must have known

the tone was wrong, each ear listening

as the overture clattered and hummed

for three days, more than two thousand planes

bursting through the walls of their homes.

Tonight, I remember the country boys

my grandfather trained to fly at Centralia

and Summerside, PEI. I see them turning,

pulling the lever of the bomb-bay doors,

feel the knife of cold air at their throats

as the tonnage whistles, in darkness dropping

upon a million civilians and refugees,

their eyes glowing like red crystals

as they reflect the firestorm

igniting all around them,

wet surfaces of their tongues

melting with unvoiced lessons.

What remains? Unbearable trials,

ashes and shadow-entities,

white thoughts with small parachutes

trumpeting their own burials.