Afghanistan. The ancients say we first
met when our goddesses -- now forsworn -- rode
above in a lion-drawn chariot
which now casts its shading convoy, to see
if hypnotic swords are beaten to peace.
    Or witness plowshares melting to flashpoints.

©2002, Jeffrey Alfier

You escaped death in the primitive dream,
Fate dragging you through the sudden currents
where you glide in the dark to find your prey,
listening for their electric shadows.
In deep-water canyons you cannot slip
the blue-green wayfare of your chthonic skin.
It's warmth -- near the surface -- that can kill you.

©2002, Jeffrey Alfier

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Poems After the Attack collection > table of contents

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