If by force I can wind time
back on its coil, steel will pluck
itself from your skin, reforge
itself from jagged pieces, disappear
into the sky
blood will tidy itself
in a hurry, apologize as it slinks
back into your veins. Dawn will spring
fresh into your irises, lashes dampen
pupils shrink as the light
of the world pours in.
If by skill I can press this barrel
against the nape of the universe, I will expose
its secrets, negotiate your release
you’ll jump to your feet, take flight as air
strains to close behind you, as the whining drones
are swallowed by birds
smoke and dust will resolve
to brick and canister, contained
until they are safely disassembled
ships and trucks will roll
in reverse, stopping only to gather
their bales of warheads.
Here in this backwards place
the brightest in the world tilt their chins
over their deadly harvest
vying for the title: who
can best eradicate the bomb
plant the uranium deepest
trap the devil in his den
if by knowing you, I can chart
your coordinates against
this flimsy plane, I will find
the moment when
you last
felt
joy.
Caitlin Townsend (they/them) is a queer writer living in Lekwungen Territory (Victoria, BC). Their work seeks to dissolve imagined borders between the human and natural worlds, confront imposed hierarchies, and explore how land and other forms of life create meaning. They hold an MPhil from the University of Cambridge.