I swear I heard the president say
we'd be shooting spent geranium
bullets. Blam! Visions of bloodred
drooping leaves flailing 'cross battle
fields struck my mind, till logic
murmured he meant uranium.
I didn't listen, for truly, doesn't war
make sense just for the hard of hearing?
We all, we must believe that generals
plan an exchange of atomic moms,
tireless mothers dropping unhurt
from planes to hug us all.
That soldiers silently embrace,
walking against the wind in
mime fields, lined not with barbed
wire, but instead garbed spires:
cathedrals ornately draped with jeans
blouses, and perhaps a beret.
And tiny foreign children flee
Dar es salaam, lip balm, or even
angry Tom, anything but napalm
anything but flaming, sticking
bonewhite searing truth.
Surely, truly, war is for the hard
of hearing, who are myopic too,
or else how could humans live
with the horrors that we do?