Future Birthplace from Issue 65
Because God is dead the spire on the hill
appears much whiter than it should. Below,
the uninitiated go about their day without wonder.
There’s always the next tornado, next unquenchable
fire. The furniture is something they live with every day.
It’s Riverside, Iowa, late summer, plenty of free parking.
Part of the town’s decked out for James T. Kirk’s distant
coming: Romulans on a street corner hock scooters
and phasers and tintypes of pre-apocalyptic angels
sipping soft drinks. Women high heel from the salons
Sniffing the singed Venusian air. Cup your hands
to your ears. Hear tomorrow? It comes howling
off the plains on the wings of a starship melded
together from cardboard, egg whites, yesterday’s news.
Under stoplights, farm droids idle their engines
and dream the high school into crab nebula.
A young girl on a rope swing, her tensiles smile warping
higher and higher, without bidding, without remorse
*Note: Riverside, Iowa, is the self-proclaimed birthplace of James T. Kirk