November 3/30
How wrong we have been
to fight wars
with the enemies breath on our skin
how silly were the men
to wince at death
and fire away
without knowing the target’s name
her height,
her weight,
the color of her eyes, both
before and after she had been crying
but you do know this
you know her
like the back of her father’s hand
and still you
fire away
Show me how you fire bullets
from another nation
tell me all about the good fight
and how it has moved from
the ripe field
with anonymous fingers
pulling anonymous triggers
to the back of your throat
balling up contempt
like a musket ball
waiting for a spark
If she were a stranger
you would be the kind of patriot
to pinch the rifle with your eyes closed
to assume you’re accuracy
has only left them wounded
and 5 Hail Mary’s later
you and God can call it “duty”
yeah, you could do that
but this is different
she hears the bullet whistle
your favorite song
there is no confusing the banner
with any other knitting circle’s work
and the reason she is losing
is because she is focused on the threads
wondering how cowardice could be
so cleverly dyed to appear to be
righteousness
I propose you raise a banner of your own
one that cannot be made
to look small
I propose you flatter a mop handle
with the dress you picked out for church
and wave it left to right
like you are turning both cheeks
and tricking yourself into thinking
that they must’ve not known
your face from mine
but they did
they know
your height
your weight
the color of your eyes, both
before and after you had been crying
and they still show no quarter
they are not warriors
they cannot see the blue of your eyes
they are a hundred miles away
punching launch codes into a rag doll
