pup·pet n.
A small figure of a person or animal, having a cloth body and hollow head, designed to be fitted over and manipulated by the hand.
A writer reigniting his love affair with his muse while making his way in a strange world. Visit jasonmical.com for more.
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From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
Posted by Jason at 9/25/2007 04:51:00 AM
Labels: B-17s, poem, poetry, Randall Jarrell, war Digg Del.icio.us
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2 comments:
Wow.
Were you watching THE WAR last night by any chance? One of the WWII vets they were interviewing was a ball turret gunner.
As a matter of fact, I was - it's what inspired me to look up that poem!
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