3 Poems
by C. S. Ward
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Yellow, Yellow, Yellow
The Air Force is a thrift store
for monarchs and I am one
of those monarchs. When I joined
the Air Force, I was handed a mix tape
of moments when I acted like my parents.
I like being a pilot, but I also do not
want to wear a mask of my old stuffed animals.
So I am relegated to a junior position.
I must find the reincarnation of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
here in America. I am what you call:
yellow yellow yellow
which means I am a member of Solid Gold October:
a club I have made, where I follow the sun through the trees.
Divorced by the Moon
Peace, looks like they are holding hands
A mirror
Trick
They don’t know each other
1989 Brooke Shields
I had been traveling with.
This imaginary photographic world,
Like a child’s toy song: 8-4-4-4 elephant wing.
That I’d been traveling with.
Lost in the pained bus depot,
The outline of a cat, in the hills
of a worn out video loop.
I had been traveling with.
Let this candy bar be the one that I love for the rest of my life is gone,
That I’d been traveling with.
In the earliest morning,
a white butt
divorced by the moon,
I had been traveling with.
Sending thoughts out through a moving window:
My friends are all dreaming of the same barn
or shed
that is
beyond plain view.
Summer
It was a video about heat—how it is so elusive to grasp—
just up ahead, coming off the pavement.
The video had a small man attuned to beer.
He was desperately grasping
for heat off the top of air conditioners
from the night houses which lit
his terrible face.
He was a small movie leaking memories.
What he was feeling was from the commercial,
but weaker, more true.
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