Sputnik
I was born the month the Russian moon
crossed the night sky beeping
like a frenetic alarm,
America still yawning
at the factory gate
having just saved Democracy
for Walt Disney and General Motors—
maybe in that order—
you could smell the aluminum
of a thousand tracts where women
high on hairspray and Good Housekeeping
sent their children off
to a world terrified
by its victories—
the future seemed buzzy as neon
outside the Tastee-Freez,
bright as the yellow coat of arms
of the fallout shelter
tacked to the courthouse entrance.
We’d grow up in fear
and polyester: television
our forever. In Sunday
School we watched
a movie about the Holocaust
and shivered to think that
someplace else
people could be so mean.
