A poem might arrive–
innocent as a bomb
in a camp full of refugees. It’s war,
we like to say about anything out of the ordinary.
Love is war—where we try to obliterate
the part of us we’d rather not name.
Writing is war. This metaphor, itself, a mishap–
we scrape from the bottom of our soul.
Our luck is bound to change
if only we refuse to identify an end
and steadily count it down.
We go on with warrants and bombs
for those, much like ourselves,
we might better have intended to love.
