were the rifles connected? I know

you see yourself in one of the two

doomed choppers, somewhere

in those few seconds between

first explosion and second.

You would’ve known the friendly

beacon was switched off, the Hellfire

missile was locked on,

and that there was a rumble of machinery

next to you a moment ago.

I know a coin spins in your mind

as you paint a moon beyond

the summit. As you tuck two boys in,

their smiles like fault lines,

as you turn down sheets

that will twist into twine around

your limbs by morning, remember

you are not the tail or head

of the coin. Rodney, you are

the spinning, you are the coin’s ridge,

you are what happens between

sand/soil/clay and sky.

Hum for the Stone

Hum for the Stone

Here on the shoulder

of a freeway, rebar exposed

by a semi that crushed a concrete

dividing wall to avoid crushing

a hatchback protrudes from slabs

in a way she imagines bone can.

The girl is doing this again:

pressing a malachite

into his palm, her cupped

hand closing his around

its smooth, worthless form.

She whispers kiss-close,

The Book of the Dead says

we’ll be falcons with wings

made of this stone.

A boy feels a broken brick

strike between shoulders.

The next stone breaks

against his nose as he turns,

and if not for the many ribbons

of blood sliding between

fingers, one could think

he was doubled over

with laughter, celebration

in the convulsions.

The black tourmaline she polished

is pushed into his pocket.

This one comes in many colors

that make it easy to confuse

with other stones. That’s why

it doesn’t have a legend—

He removes it to finger

the surface. Crude, glossy,

looks like it could spill.

—except for black. Black

is always easy: all crow and funeral.

Will you carry this to mine?

Clang and clang is the stones’ ricochet

off corrugated steel and shields

made from garbage can lids.

The bricks in their hands fit

into a row of pavers on a path

to a garden that grows gravestone.

Some come here to bless barrow-dirt

or to listen for the sound pebbles

make: a lack, a hole opening

at the center of this crumbling din.

The Girl Who Builds Rockets from Bricks

The Girl Who Builds Rockets from Bricks

finds no voice louder

than hers in the caverns

of deserted houses

or overgrown lots that surround

her excavation for spare parts:

shards of a whiskey bottle, matches,

anthills erupting from concrete

seams, the discarded husk

of a beetle. The shells of vacants

reflect the echoes of her little

song—a song with lyrics

assembled in a quiet language

only she speaks—language

not spoken with tongue but hands

that snatch up fists of grass,

crunch into dust the driest leaves—

small hands that fill jelly jars

with broken glass, gravel, and fire ants,

each jar, an engine for a rocket.