Friday, May 9, 2014

A Poem by Fain Rutherford

Winter Ops 

It’s so cold outside, flies
lie along the doorjamb
where a little heat leaks.
They’re lined up like fighter jets
de-icing on a vertical runway.
Stealth black fuselages conserve fuel,
vibrating just enough not to freeze.
Bug-eyed cockpit canopies defrost.
.When the door opens,
the squadron suddenly scrambles
into the studio’s steamy warmth,
flying missions against assigned targets-
coffee grounds, egg shells and toilet lids,
evading all countermeasures until,
one by one, acting on higher insect orders,
they crash into the window glass and die.

Over the years, Fain Rutherford has worked as a soldier, lawyer, university lecturer, rock-climbing guide, survival instructor and at-home-dad. He currently resides in Washington State.  His recent poems appear or are scheduled to appear in Subliminal Interiors, Right Hand Pointing, Poetry Quarterly, Front Porch Review, Eunoia Review, Connotation Press, and Apeiron Review.

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