Graves Registry, #1

fr. Graves Registry, #1

. . . Wein, leuchtend
in eisernen Hauben. Wein? Oder
Blut?—Wer kanns unterscheiden?
- Rainer Maria Rilke,
The Lay of the Love & Death
of Coronet Christopher Rilke

Something is coming.

a significance, growing, emerges
from the deep green water, slick
with oil. At first it shows a low shape,
resembles a shark, or a killer whale:

long & dark, with fins.

Nearer the surface, a glow of blue,
a gleam from the cockpit, sense
of someone within–a paleness
viewed through uncertain light.

The increasing apprehension, uneasy
excitement.

It's free. The cables of the straining crane
draw taut & the water opens, parts with suction
& gurgles

—the plane, wings shorn off, body
intact, is lifted, gleaming, blue,
paint freshly wet into the bright
sun of Tokyo Bay.

Pilot & gunner sit stiff
in their proper places; radioman
below, can't be seen, the awareness
of him alone is there

each has his goggles set, heads
leaning slightly forward against
the restraining straps. Lenses
wink dully.

Then in the vanishing water
in the bright air flesh slides off long dead
skulls, the helmets shrink & collapse
out of sight as the hook drops the TBM, looking
almost new, on the waiting barge.

NB: an autopsy revealed
the pilot was killed
by one piece of shrapnel
which neatly severed
each vertebra in turn
the gunner & the radioman
were alive when the plane
hit the water.

Keith Wilson

[fr. Graves Registry and Other Poems: New York, Grove Press, 1967]