Because the burn's unstable， burning too hot

    in the liquid hydrogen suction line

    and so causing vortices in the rocket fuel

    flaming hotter and hotter as the "big boy"

    blasts off， crawling painfully slowly

    up the blank sky， then， when he blinks

    exploding white hot against his wincing

    retina， the fireball's corona searing

    in his brain， he drives with wife and sons

    the twisting road at dawn to help with the Saturday

    test his division's working on： the crowd

    of engineers surrounding a pit dug in snow

    seeming talky， joky men for 6 a.m.， masking

    their tension， hoping the booster rocket's

    solid fuel will burn more evenly than the liquid

    and keep the company from layoffs rumored

    during recess， though pride in making

    chemicals do just what they're calculated to

    also keys them up as they lounge behind

    pink caution tape sagging inertly

    in the morning calm： in the back seat， I kick

    my twin brother's shin， bored at 6：10 a.m.

    until Dad turns to us and says， in a neutral tone，

    Stop it， stop it now， and we stop and watch：

    a plaque of heat， a roar like a diesel blasting

    in your ear， heatwaves ricocheting off gray mist

    melting backward into dawn， shockwaves rippling

    to grip the car and shake us gently， flame

    dimly seen like flame inside the brain confused

    by a father who promises pancakes after，

    who's visibly elated to see the blast shoot

    arabesques of mud and grit fountaining up

    from the snow-fringed hole mottling to black slag

    fired to ruts and cracks like a parched streambed.

    Deliriously sleepy， what were those flames doing

    mixed up with blueberry pancakes， imaginings of honey

    dripping and strawberry syrup or waffles，

    maybe， corrugated like that earth， or a stack

    of half-dollars drenched and sticky……？

    My father's gentle smile and nodding head-

    gone ten years， and still I see him climbing

    slick concrete steps as if emerging from our next door

    neighbor's bomb shelter， his long-chilled shade

    feeling sunlight on backs of hands， warmth on cheeks，

    the brightness making eyes blink and blink……

    so like his expression when a friend came

    to say goodbye to him shrunken inside

    himself as into a miles-deep bunker……

    and then he smiled， his white goatee

    flexing， his parched lips cracked but welcoming

    as he took that friend's hand and held it， held it

    and pressed it to his cheek…… The scales， weighing

    one man's death and his son's grief against

    a city's char and flare， blast-furnace heat melting

    to slag whatever is there， then not there

    doesn't seesaw to a balance， but keeps shifting，

    shifting……nor does it suffice to make simple

    correspondences between bunkers and one man's

    isolation inside his death， a death

    he died at home and chose……at least insofar

    as death allows anyone a choice， for what

    can you say to someone who's father or mother

    crossing the street at random， or running

    for cover finds the air sucked out

    of them in a vacuum of fire calibrated

    in silence in a man's brain like my father's

    -the numbers calculated inside the engineer's

    imagination become a shadowy gesture as in Leonardo's

    drawing of a mortar I once showed my father

    and that we admired for its precision， shot raining

    down over fortress walls in spray softly pattering，

    hailing down shrapnel like the fountain of Trevi

    perfectly uniform， lulling to the ear and eye

    until it takes shape in the unforgiving

    three dimensional， as when the fragile，

    antagonized， antagonistic human face

    begins to slacken into death as in my own

    father's face， a truly gentle man except

    for his work which was conducted gently too

    since "technicals" like him were too shy for sales

    or management， and what angers he may have had

    seemed to be turned inward against judging

    others so the noise inside his head was quieter

    than most and made him， to those who knew him well，

    not many， but by what they told me after he died，

    the least judgemental person

    they'd ever known-who， at his almost next to last

    breath， uncomplaining， said to his son's

    straining， over-eager solicitation，

    Is there something you need， anything？

    That picture straighten it…… his face smoothing

    to a slate onto which light scribbles what？ a dark joke，

    an elegant equation， a garbled oracle？