I am the drone of a banjo’s fifth string.
I am the drone that gives bottom
to the chanter in a highland fling.
Haw, hum. I am the drone of drone itself,
planted so pleasurably in the mouth.
A monotone. A lodestone. I’m an MQ-9,
a Reaper Drone, ranging wide, circling
in the sky. No windows, no cockpit.
No one onboard. See how my Hellfires
fly faster than sound. I am drone,
from the tymbal under the cicada’s wing.
I gather no pollen, and have no sting.
Arriving unheard, I haunt the sky
and inseminate the queen before I die.
I am a poetry that celebrates power.
I bring. I bring. The white house
is empty. I bomb air. I bomb stone.
My country, ’tis of thee I sing.
