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The Dubose and Dorothy Heyward Society Prize

Ethan Fugate

 

Flight 17

(from Nouveaux Contes de Fées)

the air so still at sunset                           musical staves written                        cells alive with energy

condensation trails of jets                      in pink chalk hover                              pooling over apologies

linger parallel to one another                The Moon a half note rises                and smoke and blood


engine noises push through                  exploding inward                                the dreaming bee welcomes

disappear into flesh                                 exploding always                                every moon to the hive

open up the other side                           exploding hopeful                               the air so still


decay of now decoy                               said with wages of blood                    peaceful jets ripping sky and

marble posturing                                    expertise in swarms singing               flesh human pilots desperate

a field plowed under                              definite concrete shrapnel                  for anything but flight


what our government needs                what I just said is violent                      to fully expect to fall

what matters to consumers                  to people past violent to bee             into a field from on high what

is perceived is broken                            absent flowers violent                         wreckage amongst flowers