A. Z. Foreman

Harwich, 1940 

   (Based on the first-hand account of Douglas Grice) 

     I know how angels scream in Spitfire glass 
through teeth that would make serial killers cry.
It was a Sunday when the sky at last 
     was mine. Or let me think it was. A lie 
of blue, enough to coax a living man
into a dance and wager he won't die. 
     I flew alone. My engine mostly ran
on ghosts and fantasy. Others had dipped well 
below. The daylight at my wrist began 
     to bleed. Then oh fuck. Flash. Cockpit turned hell. 
My left hand clawed the canopy half-blind.
The flames were instant. Memory doesn't dwell 
     on how I screamed. It's instinct, not the mind 
that pops the harness, yanks the cord and falls.
I didn't jump. I simply came unlined 
     from everything. A turning Spitfire stalls 
and spins me out, the ocean far below:
a map of Essex smeared in blazing brawls. 
     The parachute caught air, a ghostly show 
of silk to answer gravity's demand.
I hung, a half-cooked doll, mouth all aglow 
     with flapping skin and ash. A burnt-out brand. 
I saw the fields. Relief. They weren't the sea.
Then drifted outward still. This wasn't planned. 
     Two miles from shore, a trawler watched for me. 
I hit waves, floundered like an idiot,
my lips a blistered riddle. I could see 
     the boat, its engine groaning, cool and hot 
with kindness. Fishermen perfumed with smoke 
hauled me aboard like something God forgot. 
     A ruined boy. They didn't even joke.
One stared. "You're one of ours". There was the grit 
of salt dried red. My throat could barely croak. 
     We fought for many things and none of it 
made sense right then. This was no noble flame. 
I burned. I dropped. I didn't give a shit 
     except to live. When the Luftwaffe came 
I fell out backward from a turning plane
where God was partly wind and mostly pain. 

A. Z. Foreman is a linguist, poet, short story author and/or translator pursuing a doctorate at the Ohio State University. His work has been featured in the Threepenny Review, ANMLY, Rattle, the Los Angeles Review and elsewhere including two people’s tattoos but not yet the Starfleet Academy Quarterly or Tattooine Monthly. He wants to pet your dog.