POEM XXXI: “TIME TRAVELER’S CHOICE”

“You’ve got a time machine, I’ve got a gun. What the hell. Let’s kill Hitler.”
–Doctor Who, Series 6, Episode 8

Like the fistful of atoms
in their jacket of steel,
the idea has a cradle.

This is the house where the idea was born
These, the fields that nurtured it,
This, the sky under which it happened.
We return again and again and again to this place
Austria, 1889.

Let us find his bassinet, his nursemaid inattentive,
and a sharp stone corner to whack his skull against.

But it’s too late. Look around you,
The Aryan corn is ripe and blonde.
The lie is here already,
metastasized in every swelling kernel.

Careful students,
they hold within their copy-books
the perfect double of the lie.

They only wait for the gene to throw the switch,
and a million brownshirts come swarming
like locusts out of this perfect corn.

If not him,
surely another blue-eyed carrier
would have found within himself
the dark energy to perform a cataclysm.

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