Oh, say, can you see
how the red rockets rage?
Spilling across the sky
like ink on the page.

Do you see, if you will,
how they erode the night?
Streaks of fire masquerading
as a star’s shooting light.

Interceptors weave together
to cripple the coming wrath,
like a hammer meets a gun,
and bullets trace lonely paths.

I’m reminded of fireflies
in the dead weight of summer.
Splashes of flame hit our eyes
and tear the heavens asunder.

I’d capture them in bottles
(I didn’t know better then)
and screw the lid on tight,
never to let them out again.

But the lid is off now,
and out pours lightning.
With flashes of summer heat,
the missiles keep flying.

Earth’s pulse quickens
as bombs and targets meet.
boom-boom-boom
a solemn choir repeats.

Close your eyes…
feel the power of death?
Plumes of smoke rise,
like a child’s winter breath.

Put your hand to the ground!
It trembles from shock and awe.
The red rockets pound,
restoring rule of law.

They have the moral high-ground;
tactics be damned.
Endless rockets trace the path
of His Red Right Hand.

Editor: Shannon Hensley