Oracle

　　by Tom Sleigh

　　 Because the burn's unstable， burning too hot

　　 in the liquid hydrogen suction line

　　 and so causing vortices in the rocket fuel

　　 flaming hotter and hotter as the "big boy"

　　 blasts off， crawling painfully slowly

　　 up the blank sky， then， when he blinks

　　 exploding white hot against his wincing

　　 retina， the fireball's corona searing

　　 in his brain， he drives with wife and sons

　　 the twisting road at dawn to help with the Saturday

　　 test his division's working on： the crowd

　　 of engineers surrounding a pit dug in snow

　　 seeming talky， joky men for 6 a.m.， masking

　　 their tension， hoping the booster rocket's

　　 solid fuel will burn more evenly than the liquid

　　 and keep the company from layoffs rumored

　　 during recess， though pride in making

　　 chemicals do just what they're calculated to

　　 also keys them up as they lounge behind

　　 pink caution tape sagging inertly

　　 in the morning calm： in the back seat， I kick

　　 my twin brother's shin， bored at 6：10 a.m.

　　 until Dad turns to us and says， in a neutral tone，

　　 Stop it， stop it now， and we stop and watch：

　　 a plaque of heat， a roar like a diesel blasting

　　 in your ear， heatwaves ricocheting off gray mist

　　 melting backward into dawn， shockwaves rippling

　　 to grip the car and shake us gently， flame

　　 dimly seen like flame inside the brain confused

　　 by a father who promises pancakes after，

　　 who's visibly elated to see the blast shoot

　　 arabesques of mud and grit fountaining up

　　 from the snow-fringed hole mottling to black slag

　　 fired to ruts and cracks like a parched streambed.

　　 Deliriously sleepy， what were those flames doing

　　 mixed up with blueberry pancakes， imaginings of honey

　　 dripping and strawberry syrup or waffles，

　　 maybe， corrugated like that earth， or a stack

　　 of half-dollars drenched and sticky......？

　　 My father's gentle smile and nodding head-

　　 gone ten years， and still I see him climbing

　　 slick concrete steps as if emerging from our next door

　　 neighbor's bomb shelter， his long-chilled shade

　　 feeling sunlight on backs of hands， warmth on cheeks，

　　 the brightness making eyes blink and blink......

　　 so like his expression when a friend came

　　 to say goodbye to him shrunken inside

　　 himself as into a miles-deep bunker......

　　 and then he smiled， his white goatee

　　 flexing， his parched lips cracked but welcoming

　　 as he took that friend's hand and held it， held it

　　 and pressed it to his cheek...... The scales， weighing

　　 one man's death and his son's grief against

　　 a city's char and flare， blast-furnace heat melting

　　 to slag whatever is there， then not there

　　 doesn't seesaw to a balance， but keeps shifting，

　　 shifting......nor does it suffice to make simple

　　 correspondences between bunkers and one man's

　　 isolation inside his death， a death

　　 he died at home and chose......at least insofar

　　 as death allows anyone a choice， for what

　　 can you say to someone who's father or mother

　　 crossing the street at random， or running

　　 for cover finds the air sucked out

　　 of them in a vacuum of fire calibrated

　　 in silence in a man's brain like my father's

　　 -the numbers calculated inside the engineer's

　　 imagination become a shadowy gesture as in Leonardo's

　　 drawing of a mortar I once showed my father

　　 and that we admired for its precision， shot raining

　　 down over fortress walls in spray softly pattering，

　　 hailing down shrapnel like the fountain of Trevi

　　 perfectly uniform， lulling to the ear and eye

　　 until it takes shape in the unforgiving

　　 three dimensional， as when the fragile，

　　 antagonized， antagonistic human face

　　 begins to slacken into death as in my own

　　 father's face， a truly gentle man except

　　 for his work which was conducted gently too

　　 since "technicals" like him were too shy for sales

　　 or management， and what angers he may have had

　　 seemed to be turned inward against judging

　　 others so the noise inside his head was quieter

　　 than most and made him， to those who knew him well，

　　 not many， but by what they told me after he died，

　　 the least judgemental person

　　 they'd ever known-who， at his almost next to last

　　 breath， uncomplaining， said to his son's

　　 straining， over-eager solicitation，

　　 Is there something you need， anything？

　　 That picture straighten it...... his face smoothing

　　 to a slate onto which light scribbles what？ a dark joke，

　　 an elegantequation， a garbled oracle？

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