Philip Havey

The Admiral

“He died a warriors death.” - Peter Boyer



Hi, Sailor!
It was just a matter of a boisterous bimbo 
With ten thumbs on the controls;
Two farts of brass 
On a Kraut green field of felt
That couldn’t weight a fishhook properly;
A gauntlet of lumbering ass-holes,
Laboring under the assumption
The standing order had been given
As “All hands on broads”.
And a bilge slopped over the gunwales
With enough sludge
To deep-six anything down
To the depths of Foggy Bottom;
None of which added up 
To single one of the unfolding blossoms
You died among.
Welcome to Valhalla, Honey!,
On your first shot, you made the grade.

Overleaf



If page five, where the dying child plugs into the roll
Of her mother’s hip is held up to a strong light,
The woman leans against the wall of gold
From the story on the next page about the U.S. Mint.
Positioned in an inset box, high within the bleedthrough,
The Secretary of the Treasury’s ghosted face averts
From both mother and child, his wire-rimmed glasses
Riding school-marm like down the thin dorsum 
Of his nose as if just receiving an improper answer.
The precious metal glitters through the greasy paper,
Dominating the date palms and foliage of Bangladesh;
The pustules of the child on our side of the page fester
Like birdshot wounds against the unblemished bullion;
By accident or design, both the man and the woman
Find a common focal point to right and off the page 
With an equally shared disinterest for time and place,
As the child dies another consolidated column inch
Within the stapled binding of a magazine called-”Life”.

The Opening

“I will return as millions!”- Evita Peron



Like optical separations
Read as one, the dictator’s 
Flaxen haired wife 
And the chanteuse 
Present a plenitude
Of flawless relief. 
From separate glosses
Of time and space,
They turn from one 
To many and back;
Each more other
Than her own to find
How plaiting exceeds 
The drawn hank of self.
Both tell us of the ways
The utter exposure 
And manipulation of flesh 
Inevitably come full circle 
Into a rectitude 
Of cherished embrasios 
And the loveliest ways
To burn.
Furs and silks shave 
From naked shoulders
Like glacial sheathing, 
The house lights dim, 
Satin curtains flounce 
Up into their tucks,
A soft ratcheting precedes 
The shaft of lancing light,
Images rescore as icons 
And not even the fractiousness 
Of Dolby Sound can erase
The clear markings pathing 
The way to Elesusinia.