Poetry Friday No. 19-0913

I had decided my day was too full to write a #PoetryFriday post. Then about an hour ago, the quiet of our afternoon was filled with a helicopter flying low and close, circling more than once. I stepped out to watch then returned to my kitchen table, opened my laptop to my blog dashboard, and drafted the following poem.  It is without title; if you have a suggestion, please share with me in the “Reply” below. {Thank you in advance.}

Updating (Oct 3): I think I’ve found a title: “Return to Me.” The title idea grew out of ideas by Laura Purdie Salas. See my reply to her comment below.]

I hear the chop of your blades
as low over the trees you skim.
Your whirling fades and
then circles back.
Twice you come around,
so close I can see
your bright orange
against the blue sky,
just above green trees.
My eyes follow your path.
I wonder, what do you see?
Why are you circling
my neighborhood?

On my back porch, September’s sun is warm
but I feel a memory-chill. I remember another time,
another place . . .

I hear you coming,
The rhythm of your blades:
whomp, whomp, whomp,
flying low like giant
insects, silhouettes against
a tropical sky. You
never come alone, but
I rarely count how many.
Hueys, we call you.
On maneuvers, I’ve been told.

The house vibrates with your
fierce whomp, whomp, whomp —
the rhythm of hope, of life?
Or of destruction, of death?
I shade my eyes to see your
crews inside, and wonder,
How does one choose which
to be — a warrior of the air
or of the jungle? or on the sea?
. . . or under the sea?

As you pass, my little boy stirs
in his afternoon nap. I lay
my hand on his back, gently
hush him, telling him everything
is all right . . . when really my life
is torn raw and your fading
whomp, whomp, whomp
is the sound of war far away,
yet so close.

I stand at my kitchen calendar
turn the months to count the
weeks until his return.
I push aside fear, turn
to his picture, look in his
eyes. I reach for him,
hold his image close —
long enough to warm
its cold metal frame.

I look across the harbor
where Pacific becomes sky.
Someday he will return
to me from beneath the sea.

© 2019 Alice Nine (draft)

Photo: USS James Monroe SSBN 622
My husband served aboard the USS James Monroe.

This week’s #PoetryFriday Roundup is hosted by
Laura Prudie Salas at Writing the World for Kids

#PoetryFriday: Poetry Friday Roundup Schedule

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