chemtrails by Ser Nin (15)

The contrails are the cherub giant's tightrope,
over the clouds, when he lifts the airplanes off the reptile-skinned maps,
says the angsana tree to every new toddler who is sung to sleep on her void deck
until she is hunted down by the metal ships rolling onto the porch

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then the contrails become chemtrails, painting suns with the diseased end of the paintbrush,
with the children leaving behind daruma dolls on the ticket counter,
with the grandchildren choking on kueh flown in from glittering towers
Bigfoot trips without offerings, the tombs
write him off as Santa Claus, an impossibility for outlandish exiles
His tightrope frays into screaming archives and the evicted chickens think
condensation, overseas, new bride, to get away from the stillness of the fireplaces, 
adamant on babysitting yet another forgetful infant​​