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Orders for Vietnam in the Sea of Tranquility, and: Lightning, and: On the Thirty-Ninth Night

Orders for Vietnam in the Sea of Tranquility, and: Lightning, and: On the Thirty-Ninth Night Barry Ballard Orders for Vietnam in the Sea of Tranquility The moment I mean isn't exactly that moment when Armstrong set foot on the moon, although we could say it was sacred, a seized cratering of thought over the lifeless womb of its untouched sand. How could he, or any of us survive its shockwave of silence? I rested with them in the sanctuary of their seven-hour wait, minds entrenched in the tenuous chance of their lifting off, my own hand, white-knuckled, clutching the orders for Vietnam. None of us slept. Instead we imagined the cresting of wildflowers, or the harsh possibility of being lost and the frailty of the orbiter over our heads. Lightning Sometimes the mind swirls (in spite of how much we love, or how much we're loved back) like a cloud filled with colliding hydrometeors. Each touch of affection, each embrace, broken down by the larger negatives: The deep voice of gravity telling us, "We don't deserve 149 it"; the fear building to millions of poised volts waiting to discharge in the inner ear. And then the flash across all the years of your opposing regions, the predictable "four strikes" (the body, mind, emotion, http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Prairie Schooner University of Nebraska Press

Orders for Vietnam in the Sea of Tranquility, and: Lightning, and: On the Thirty-Ninth Night

Prairie Schooner , Volume 80 (3)

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Publisher
University of Nebraska Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2006 by the University of Nebraska Press.
ISSN
1542-426X
Publisher site
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Abstract

Barry Ballard Orders for Vietnam in the Sea of Tranquility The moment I mean isn't exactly that moment when Armstrong set foot on the moon, although we could say it was sacred, a seized cratering of thought over the lifeless womb of its untouched sand. How could he, or any of us survive its shockwave of silence? I rested with them in the sanctuary of their seven-hour wait, minds entrenched in the tenuous chance of their lifting off, my own hand, white-knuckled, clutching the orders for Vietnam. None of us slept. Instead we imagined the cresting of wildflowers, or the harsh possibility of being lost and the frailty of the orbiter over our heads. Lightning Sometimes the mind swirls (in spite of how much we love, or how much we're loved back) like a cloud filled with colliding hydrometeors. Each touch of affection, each embrace, broken down by the larger negatives: The deep voice of gravity telling us, "We don't deserve 149 it"; the fear building to millions of poised volts waiting to discharge in the inner ear. And then the flash across all the years of your opposing regions, the predictable "four strikes" (the body, mind, emotion,

Journal

Prairie SchoonerUniversity of Nebraska Press

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