Pleading With an Ibid's Hem (formerly The Golden Bullet), edit 1

[Lizzie]

Pleading With an Ibid's Hem

The dream began as they often do:
familiar dread, unfamiliar place—
children with the names I gave them,
ages flouting linear time.

Men stood in rows like solemn corn—
a marching band missing a routine and music—
with Paul Ryan's slicked black All-American hair,
matching navy blue fitted suits,
and placid eyes that followed
the golden bullet gleaming overhead.

Their eyes were drawn in time
along its line through the sky,
tuning to the mastery of a new conductor,
mouths slung open the way they slack
when the mind abandons consciousness.

There was no warning but mine,
or sign from Yahweh—
no rainbow or prepared ark.

They never looked down or to the side,
so they didn't see us wash away.

The dream began as they always do:
familiar dread, unfamiliar place—
children with the names I gave them
and ages that make no sense in logical time.

Men stood in rows like solemn corn,
like a marching band with no routine and no music,
only Paul Ryan's slicked black All-American hair,
navy blue fitted suits, and placid eyes that followed

the bullet gleaming golden overhead,
the way that kittens fix on a wiggling string.
Their faces showed no fear,
no judgment, no signals of thought,
just a silent ------wow------
and mouths slung open the way they slack
when the mind abandons consciousness.

There was no covenant,
or sign from Yahweh—
no prepared ark.

They never looked down or to the side,
so they didn't see us wash away.