How the soul discharges its emotions against false objects when lacking real ones

Brandon Lewis

From bed, the bomb she hears as a thundercloud.
The bomb I hear as a falling crane.

My index finger lowering to unpause the movie.

The blankets thrown in the night, crumpling besides the girl’s bed.

The dumpster on 23rd St. enveloping the shrapnel.

The voices sifting through glass panes we can’t afford to
Soundproof.

The shameless doomsday pamphleteers who line the subway, arms outstretched,
Entering my daydreams.

My right leg wrapped under her left, beginning to numb.

The bomb she hears as routine demolition,
The bomb I hear as an unknown neighbor falling.

Her open lips of preternatural calm throughout the movie’s denoument.

My grandfather’s dulled bayonet resting atop the bookcase, out of sight.

The stack of essays curling, shut in a drawer.

The bomb she hears as the wind of endless falling,
The bomb I hear as our popcorn overdone.

The bomb’s guttural echo, surrounding.

The blankets thrown in the night.

Horace begging to let us camp in the open, against war’s alarms.

My index finger lowering to pause.