Lockerbie

                                         For my friend Michael Bernstein,
                                               murdered by terrorists, December 21, 1988
                           
       The plane ascends beyond Heathrow.
        I stare out at the dimming countryside,
        as wing lights tick through clouds,
        rivulets of rain streaking my face's reflection.

        There is an explosive device beneath my seat,
        plastique wired to a timer, fused long
        to detonate in winter darkness.
        Soon my tattered flesh hangs
        from the bulkheads, bone and sinew
        vaporized in a heart's pulse.
        My eyes float through the broken fuselage.
        Wreckage and human carnage rain
        from the night sky, the whine of vertical velocity
        masking the screams of those still living,
        if only for a few moments longer.
           
        I ask myself why.   
        I have hurt no one, offended no one.
        Yet I am a victim of invisible terrorists.
        They do not know me, they will never know me.
        I no longer exist.  They have seen to that.
        But I know them. (I have always known them).
        They cannot remain invisible forever.
        My eyes are still floating, watching.