For a Nuclear Cargo Cult

CARGO

 

The Old Men saw them. Back in the Good Times

buried under the Mountain. The BMWs faster than deer,

the Sony Walkmans powerful of secret drumming,

the sky houses, the water horses. Look. There, on the door,

with three blades. That was called Propeller. Those things made

the sky houses fly. All there. Under the Mountain.

 

The harvest’s in, meager it was. Corn from Indian seeds,

Mormon beans, pumpkins from the witches

that lived in the Good Times. Pipeweed. Listen. Under the rubble

they buried Hybrid Seeds, Marlboro smoke. There for the digging.

 

We’ve gathered, bathed in the river, tied the ancient neckties

in the knots of power, the four-in-hand, the Windsor,

over our sunburned shoulders, sent each other resumés,

circumcised the boys into the MBA Society,

 

and picked the first ceremonial stone from the rubble

in the tunnel beyond the propeller. We who will not see

the digging completed, must each put our hands to it. Listen.

I have seen in Burnt Willow Creek, running from the Mountain

since the earthquake, glowing blue deep in the pools, the Cargo.