It sits, leaden, heavy within me
Haven’t we read in our bloody history
Laden minutes like these, the push at the ledge
The point of pitch
The birth of irretrievable acceleration?
Headlong into war.
A new year, so freshly given and already
We’ve forgotten to live a different story
Egos flex and soldiers bleed, children die
Scars are carved into the earth, into our souls
And mothers, and fathers swallow grief, they eat tears.
-written January 7, 2020, after hearing the news that Iran had retaliated
This is my small record. This moment of time on January 7, 2020, just after hearing that Iran has fired missiles at Iraqi bases where coalition forces are stationed, including American troops.
Tears tipped from my eyes and ran hot and free down my face. War always tastes like this. I look at my sons, curled up together on the couch. I remember 9/11; I had cried in the shower. I had thought of my brother, a soldier. I did not want the story that seemed to rush downhill upon us. He was deployed and for a year it felt like a suspended life; sitting but not sitting, sleeping without sleeping, eating without taste. One feels as though life is held tenuously, so lightly, that a strong wind might carry it away.
How much blood has to spill before we find a different ink, a different story?