Rocket

by Allison Hummel

Part 1: Untitled

It was yesterday or something, when I heard 
the song playing in a store, asking

do I make myself a blessing to everyone I meet?

I don’t sing it to myself, exactly, but I do repeat it, 
metallic gyre, all the day long.

In the at-home lab of an electrical engineer,
I was surrounded by metallic gyres (not an industry term,)
tiny spools of wire thread that do not unwind 
to fulfill their purpose.

I touched things carefully, understanding 
none of them, vaguely 
susceptible like a green bruise because

we had woken up in one another’s 
legs. Do I make myself a blessing?

(I really do. I am 
not perfect, but lovely,

and a perceived dearth of this,
of lovely people, is just a 
cultivated skew, benefiting whom?

It’s like, capitalism.)

Anyway, unearthed Soviet 
tubes filled with brief 
forests of material mythos

surrounded me, hofbrau, 
complex blessing. Engineer says: 
…(the) reactors all disappeared 
and who knows where they are. Each could kill
100,000 people.

He makes coffee, I sit on the lawn.

Oh, and at 1:47 we watched a rocket 
ascend. It did not go straight up,

in case you are wondering.

Part 2: Rocket Ascent at Vandenberg

It appeared to experience 
a horizontal epoch, a teendom.

Maybe meandering is part of all 
great inclinations. I’m reminded of

“…the falcon cannot hear the falconer,” 
but that’s never really true, it’s only a game.

The rocket could definitely hear the falconer,
and I feel sure that it still does, 
even at this very moment.

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