Letter to a Drone Pilot

In my dream of you perched in a turret in your white chemise
with the blue star print, my oxen move through your spyglass
trained on me in a far-off valley where my caravan trundles
into my dream of you on an overpass in your helmet
and overalls lobbing fruit at my pickup truck while I drive
on into the dunes of my dream of you in a flight suit
at your high station noting every blink of my turn signal,
every dhaba I stop in for tea in my dream of you
as a thin motor whine pervading the airspace between
the fellaheen markets of my dream of you who follows me
down every arcade and into every courtyard, who listens
to my soft swallows on the phone, rifles through
my every communiqué, and watches me undress
from a skylight in the thatched roof of the plaster house
of my dream of you where you sit with a panther at the foot
of your rocking chair, a hatchet on one knee, and I enter
through a beaded curtain from the kitchen with a bowl of dhal
and a jug of lassi for you in your dress blues and your headset,
its microphone grazing your lower lip in the monitor glow
of my dream of you, you slip your tongue into my ear, your hand
in the damp between my legs, I’m naked as the rain, and you
are a banyan tree with your tangle of prop roots fingering
my entire earth in your dream of me I tumble and flail
with a nine-pound awl and a rope saw in your dream of me
as a stupid bull you push your sabre through in my dream of you
as an office tower and me as the zealot boy bringing you down,
darling, I do mean you harm, and you do mean me harm,
so why do you feign restraint as if it’s a kind of habit,
dress yourself in cloud cover, and raise your hand like a nun
nearly unwilling, as if there isn’t any lust in your malice,
no feeling like a good fuck when you land your hellfire home?
The Tallest Building in America
Jaswinder Bolina

The Tallest Building in America

Jaswinder Bolina

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