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I’m read Kate Aktinson’s Life Behind The Scenes at the Museum, and it is so fine, fine, fine. I love it. It is, above all else, a story of bereavement, and rationing, and the unacknowledged desires of women.

Bomber’s Moon

Too bright to deserve that name, too bright and sublime for the bodies falling to the ground, earthlit, It should serve the events of the story, the length, but it there is no story long enough for this legacy of war, and the bright moon denies us our conflict, over and over again and monthly. They recommend a Morrison Shelter, because in these times the chicken wire and timber will surely offer you hope against chance, and once their mothers clapped their hands over their mouths and choked.  Once there were lots of fiancees, once many young boys were mobbed and demobbed against a threat their kings and presidents broadcast over wires, once was then, and now, and it is always now, now and now they go and now they lose, always, sometimes limbs, and sometimes more, and somehow the sacrifice and rations become short-thrift and forgotten. These lessons of history, they get forgotten despite the one glossy photo in our textbooks, forgotten despite our underspoken grandfathers and grandmothers and greats, despite our great ones these lessons just die under the light of a bomber’s moon.

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So. A war poem. That’s okay with me, now. Happy Monday, poemfriends.

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