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Halifax Bomber crash, 1942
Kinder, steht auf!  Steht auf!

and we ran out to witness
a wing span wider than a house
flaming in the woods.

The blaze roared so hard for air
it made a sucking wind
the woods craned with, and whined;

metal chunks gouged through trunks,
the resin in the pine needles fried,
odorous like burning hair,

and I could imagine being there:
even the teeth rooted in my skull
scorched all to powder,

and all my glabrous girl skin
inside this nightslip
slide off onto the molten floor,

and all these muscles and guts
burn to black charcoal, dust.
This process, somehow,

taking all eternity.

© Jeff Fry