He screamed in out of the sun,
fire flickering along the fine lines of Death’s white hand,
squeezing bullets into muddy flesh below,
then gone in bitter escape.

Only . . .
The blood unsatisfied rose up from the steaming corpses and
crying forth in woe made after the receding blade.
At the speed and power of vengeance
a specter intent on its prey
it entered silently into the plane
through the roaring engine
up into the cockpit
to slide into his flight suit
and him.

The pilot licked his lips.
He could almost taste that coffee waiting for him back at the base.

That same hand,
still ghostly white,
holds the steaming Christmas mug,
black words around it read,
“May the Peace of Christ be with you.”

And also with

November 24, 1987

For those in the midst of another aerial bombardment.

Originally posted here April 2011.

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