William Aarnes
bomb
She’ll never tell him
that in last night’s dream
he was wrapping
a twine of red and yellow insulated wire
around his middle finger. “Obliterate,”
he’d whined, “obliterate.”
He’ll tinker
at his workbench for a few Saturdays
and then on a Sunday morning ask if she dares
to leave her cozy crossword
and ride along again.
She does—
though keeping to herself the link
between precarious and pray,
though pretending not to tense
when the pickup thumps
down the rutted road.
It’s only
his hobby, this hurrying to her side
at the edge of the field, this waiting
for whatever he’s rigged to burst
with a hard, ever sharper thud.
Worries often wake her— the planks
that give on the deck, his father’s hip,
those curses in their daughter’s greeting
on her answering machine. The certainty
he’ll never think that bomb
is the antonym of home. printable