Tipping Point, On War and Story

Tipping Point, On War and Story

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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.
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How much blood has to spill before we find a different ink, a different story?

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