I get my news from the web now,

sports from television,

unless they too show us the war, which I

 

am sure not to watch.  Somehow, seeing

pictures without the sound keeps me calmer,

except the one in the Washington Post.

 

The Iraqi child there—reportedly injured by

gun fire—was comforted by a woman, while

she held him—face still bleeding—in motherly arms.

 

After seeing that, I penned some stinging words.

I actually wrote, “Can’t we ALL become people

who do not shoot each other’s children?”  That’s all.

 

I pick up the sticks, left by a storm,

weeks ago now, when a fury of ice invaded this town.

There is unsightly brush.  And it’s still on my lawn.  So.

 

“Should a poet impale her muse,

while the battle rages on, so that even brave soldiers

retain their right to die?”  Now you tell me,

 

having heard my wartime agenda.

 

first publsihed in Visions of War