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