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  • Mary Ellen Swee

Not Armageddon

How did the stray wings

sweep into our kitchen?

Were they out nesting,

attached by garage,

waiting to rush us?

Or was there a fissure,

unknown to our people,

focused, as we were,

on some big mission?

A hole or soft spot

unanswered ’til now?

Invaders lurked,

flew without notice,

launching a hunt for abundance.

Among the frantic

they sizzled

over scone sentries –

tall stacks standing guard

from a platter.

Then avians surged,


to heart of home.

I hear a songstress nocturnal,

or chirp of a sparrow in light.

Hymn of immortals

breathing mimesis,

Caedmon, more theories,

song of creation and eggs.

But the birds in the kitchen,

once cornered,

elude us,

must be ousted

by art, craft, or force.

O Youth!

Gloom clouds ’gainst sea blue,

vermillion infinity, open embrace.

Invert your brooms!

Sweep airy gledes!

(The strategy, frankly, beguiles.)

Try harder, wood spoons,

a fusion of worlds.

But the sons do know better:

Today, not Armageddon.

A cynic is left without words.

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