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A Hare at Aldergrove

A hare standing up at last on his own two feet 
in the blasted grass by the runway may trace his lineage to the great 
assembly of hares that, in the face of what might well have looked like defeat, 
would, in 1963 or so, migrate 
here from the abandoned airfield at Nutt's Corner, not long after Marilyn Monroe 
overflowed from her body stocking 
in Something's Got to Give. These hares have themselves so long been given to row 
against the flood that when a King 
of the Hares has tried to ban bare knuckle fighting, so wont 
are they to grumble and gripe 
about what will be acceptable and what won't 
they've barely noticed that the time is ripe 
for them to shake off the din 
of a pack of hounds that has caught their scent 
and take in that enormity just as I've taken in 
how my own DNA is 87% European and East Asian 13%. 
So accustomed had they now grown 
to a low-level human hum that, despite the almost weekly atrocity 
in which they'd lost one of their own 
to a wheeled blade, they followed the herd towards this eternal city 
as if they'd had a collective change of heart. 
My own heart swells now as I watch him nibble on a shoot 
of blaeberry or heather while smoothing out a chart 
by which he might divine if our Newark-bound 757 will one day overshoot 
the runway about which there so often swirled 
rumors of Messerschmitts. 
Clapper-lugged, cleft-lipped, he looks for all the world 
as if he might never again put up his mitts 
despite the fact that he shares a Y chromosome
with Niall of the Nine Hostages, 
never again allow his om 
to widen and deepen by such easy stages, 
never relaunch his campaign as melanoma has relaunched its campaign 
in a friend I once dated, 
her pain rising above the collective pain 
with which we've been inundated
as this one or that has launched an attack 
to the slogan of "Brits Out" or "Not an Inch" 
or a dull ack-ack 
starting up in the vicinity of Ballynahinch, 
looking for all the world as if he might never again get into a fluster 
over his own entrails, 
never again meet luster with luster 
in the eye of my dying friend, never establish what truly ails 
another woman with a flesh wound 
found limping where a hare has only just been shot, never again bewitch
the milk in the churn, never swoon as we swooned 
when Marilyn's white halter-top dress blew up in The Seven Year Itch, 
in a flap now only as to whether 
we should continue to tough it out till 
something better comes along or settle for this salad of blaeberry and heather 
and a hint of common tormentilx .

22.5.12 03:10


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