I Will Come Back to You as Thunder

I will be just out of sight,
just beyond the sun.

But the sun is so twentieth century.

Most of us swim indoors,
or shade our noses.

I will be resurrected as a rainbow.

But rainbows’ stock has really fallen of late.

Name one person you know
who gives a damn about rainbows.

Well, there was that one guy
who had stopped his beater on Highway 287
to take pictures.

You will see traces of me in the flight of herons.

Rhodes and Fulbright applicants
do pay attention to herons,
but only while on specially designed boardwalks.

A bald eagle will carry my spirit.

Bald eagles can best be seen
by people who mountain-bike,
but they are generally too busy
ripping their abs.

And who the hell cares about thunder?

You can always keep track of the forecast—
that’s what your phone is for—
and wait out the rain
at a brewery.

Meteors spray the sky
like pieces of silver,
but you are in no mood to even look up.

You walk on,
holding your giant, stone-proof umbrella,
forever faithful to me,
forever alone.

Originally from Moscow, Russia, Anton Yakovlev lives in Ridgewood, New Jersey, and works as a college textbook editor. He studied filmmaking and poetry at Harvard University. His work is published or forthcoming in The New Yorker, Fulcrum, American Arts Quarterly, Measure, The Raintown Review, The New Verse News and elsewhere. He is the author of chapbooks Neptune Court (The Operating System, 2015) and The Ghost of Grant Wood (Finishing Line Press, 2015). He has also directed several short films.

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