Boom

The communists are coming.

Sirens howl wolfishly,

groggy from their dormant sleep.

Hammer and Sickle bombs penetrate

Grandpa Sam’s shelters.

But I have more important things to do

than to just stand idly

awaiting the coming of the atomic bomb,

who, with fiery rapture,

will convert us prisoners, to pagans.

You lean on the cement wall

in your white summer dress

yearning for a fresh breeze

to run a curious hand

over your pulsating neckline.

No breeze will come though.

Mother Earth’s two favorite children

are playing war,

and no hand will be left to place

that white chrysanthemum

on her empty tomb.

I can’t see anything beyond these

sheltered borders.

I try to read brailed reverberations,

like a blind man with calloused fingers.

Occasionally dust would fall from the rafters,

fleeing from the inevitable end.

“Where the fuck did those commie fuckers come from?”

is our mantra.

From the bowels of Satan.

Red Talons tear through

our red, white and blue womb

with “Bloody Vengeance,” the tragic bomb.

I grab you, and through the explosion

my starving lips lunge for yours.

Ignited, our emblazed bodies join,

outshining the fury god

raining down heated retribution.

I’m surrounded by death, but

all I can see is your eyes and bare thighs

quivering like the support beams

plunging deep into the Earth,

struggling to hold their ground.

I hear screams, but all I care about is the soft drip-

drip of our mixing fluids forming

on the splitting concrete.

Our tempo increases.

Your eyes close,

my lips tighten.

Our cheeks flush.

One last taste of you.

Boom.