Missouri, 1941
some bracing spring morning I set off
on a grim & holy task
typical for clergymen, my velvet grief
case of holy water,
relics, crucifix, bone shards from saints
gilded moments slipped
through the quartz-like film of early dawn
I drove & prayed
I’d been working on my latest sermon
about our statesmen
not all bad people, I hazard, though
it is mightily attractive
to picture them rotting in a dark pit
then the phone rang
one of those small planes had tumbled
to pieces on the jagged rocks
of the cape, the man had seen it
and can I come
to usher the pilot’s last rites, so
I drove. the waves were
melted jade and at the crash site
small fires crackled
in the black beachgrass. seeing the craft
I was shocked awake
from my dreamy deviations. sand dollar,
I first thought. as in,
round smooth and wingless, flung
by deep invisible waves
I knelt down by the three creatures
and read their last rites
as they died. they had no clue
what I was talking about
when I spoke of the Lord. I still wonder
to which endless realm
did I shepherd their spirits
as two men in dark glasses
dragged their bodies
to a pit of pure government
and said I saw nothing.
-- August Smith is an artist in Austin, TX. His debut book Visitors from the Red Star, from which this poem is excerpted, is forthcoming this July via APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL PRESS. You can interface with his songs, games, and even more UFO poems at: http://augustsmith.net/