i’m here but i’m standing here

just a mile from the charred fuselage:
rebel forced into sudden silence,
she’d sing for us hymns of the unborn
still under His rigid eye.

i left a trail of wrinkled receipts
spending evening prayers and birthday wishes
on big guns and fighter jets—
pixie dust custom-made for us,

and so came this sudden invention:
Fourth of July firecrackers
dipped in sour wine
made for idle dreams
spoiling his repair

i don’t want to be a father
you couldn’t stand to be
i don’t want to be a father
you never had to be.