Like movies wound backwards
in which bombardiers
suck bombs back through the sky
to fly reversed to their bases,
return munitions to factories to be disassembled,
parts packed and unforged,
isotopes hidden again safe in the ground
I live life backwards.
I see smoke return to the fire, the flames
drawn into but
not from the limbs stacked on the earth.
Logs climb into trees, ungreen
and unreach from the sun
to crouch into the ground.
The lights stop spinning on squad cars
as my own car rights itself from its side
and onto its tires. I walk
backwards to bars, spit rum into glasses
for bartenders to drain into bottles
and replace on the shelf.
I drive backwards through side streets
and learn to stay
instead where I start.
Grandfather returns fish to the lake
as the boat unrocks on the waves back to its dock
where I bounce on platinum wood
to my grandmother\'s cooking
and send the chicken to the stovetop
and back to the store, slaughterhouse to the farm
to the egg