Spencer Smith


With all the snow that has fallen
there is more waiting to come,

little parachutes emerging
from clouds that conceal

silent warplanes, tiny paratroopers
attacking without provocation.

They do not survive the fall.
The ashes of their bodies

pile up on the battlefield
of my yard,

some caught tragically
in the fingers of trees,

others lying broken-backed
across the slant of roof,

and the remainder
splayed peacefully on the flat.

I have no weapon to fire
into the whiteness of death.

All that is worth defending
has defected in the muffled night.

Spencer Smith is a University of Utah graduate and works in the corporate world to pay the bills that poetry doesn’t pay (i.e., all of them). His poems have appeared in over forty literary journals, including RATTLE, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Main Street Rag, RHINO, and Roanoke Review.

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