Warscape, with Lovers
Scent of plumeria, and the smell of burning.
Not one or the other, but both. Destruction, and the blossom.
Sweetheart, I'm afraid. That boy with the rifle breaks
the catechism in two. And in two. Let me
see us whole, beside the sea. My body
busy, paying attention to yours. Already
we rock each other with our voices. Already
we're braiding the invisible cord. That burning
hut on T.V. could be ours. My body
hers, child at dead breast. That blossom
of blood and bone could be your face. Let me
say truth: no place, no one, is safe. Breaking
of vows, we know, is a given. Sweetheart, you'll break
my heart. I've broken yours, but look: already
you love me again. Destruction and the blossom: let me
say it another way: that soldier, burning
to become fabulous, torches the thatch (see blossomy
flame) of the enemy's hospital: cut to my body,
clay taking shape in your hands. Body by body,
war piled on war: when will the heart break
all the way open? Thunder of mortar, blossom
in the gutter. The soldier firing the mortar already
dead. How we live: running from the burning
field, into each other's arms. Let me
lie along your side. Give me something to hold. Let me
ride those waves pouring from your fingers. The bodies
of the disappeared toll like bells. Our koan burns:
it cannot be solved. The whole and the broken,
dream and nightmare: your hand in my hair, already
familiar, could be the torturer's. Vase and its blossoms
camouflage for the bomb. You love where you can. Blossom:
a thing of promise. That's us. Now: let me
let this go. Our glass, half full--already
there's more--swells toward the rim. Ours the bodies
the death squads passed by. The refugees make a break
for the fence, running for their lives, crossing this burning,
broken, blossoming Century. They've already
paid our dues. Sweetheart, let me show you how.
Hand on the body's book: swear the burning vow.
(reprinted with thanks from Warscape, with Lovers, Cleveland State Poetry Center)
