Airplanes & The Empire State

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342px-Kong_old
Maybe it started with Godzilla.
All those deliciously bad
Japanese films imperfectly
dubbed to English,
lips and words
never properly aligning.
My brother and I
watched them
on Saturday afternoons,
kneeling on the rug
in front of the color
console,
nosing in on monsters.

These things,
so large and horrible,
devastated landscapes
as they rampaged
through power lines,
smashed roadblocks,
making entire battalions
of helmet-headed,
bazooka-wielding men,
ineffectual.

Soldiers’ courage
was always rewarded
by a calloused sole,
camera zooming in
on hands
futilely raised
in front of faces,
as if one could repel
3000 lbs of enraged colossus
with laced fingers.

Poised on small,
still perfect knees
in our 64th Street Cape Cod,
we learned
it was the cunning ones
that remained uncrushed,
who evaded the slashing nails
and zombie maws.
If you were clever enough
to master hiding
when fully visible,
become still as stone,
concealing your very heart,
you could claim
the title:
survivor.

Julie Ayers
NaPoWriMo Day 13

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