From diode poetry

 WE'RE ALWAYS GETTING THE STORY WRONG

The film tells of a gigantic, island-dwelling ape called Kong who dies in
an attempt to possess a woman.

They’re out there flying, those tiny machines,
the wind-up birds that want to carry my love
from the cradle of my hand. I hear them rushing

in the shiny distance, see them buzzing
black rings around my head, trying to calm
the shrieks of their metal wings by diving down at me.

I think how my thumb swipes across her body
and something thumps inside her chest, how
if those machines would let me, I’d pour oil

along the noise of their necks and clear
the caked ore from the engine of their jaws. Instead,
I hear the sound of their biplane wings shearing off.

How I marvel at their speed as they ping past, my hands wanting
but so useless to hold them.

© A. Bowen 2013