words
tumbling like hounds
rat-tat argument of machine gun
and the afternoon explodes . . .
This is how the war begins:
you and me squared off in the kitchen
fists clenched
mouths all cold metal
waiting for a false move
Snap
of twig
and the trigger finger bends
dogs burst from the kennel door
the soldier on watch startles and
strafes the hillside
Dogs do not understand mercy
their quick teeth do what they were made
to do (slash
vessels – gut
flesh – expose
the heart)
Torn bodies bleed into dirt under the howl
and whine of rockets
I stand my ground
anger a
grenade in my hand
pin fallen to the floor
I am armor-plated
like the tanks that churn forward
over boots and bones
spouting fire
Bullets do not understand mercy—
metal singing through sternum, pericardium
at 320 meters per second
each slug a vagrant looking for a place to crash—
bedding down in brain, in breast, while all
grows cold
And do I understand anything anymore?
I Love You is a country we
can barely remember
(the rockets’ red glare, the bombs)
and homesickness flickers
like a small but fatal wound deep
in the chest
If only we could undo this thing:
Find the moment
(snap of a twig)
where the soldier on watch sees
the one-eyed cur
nosing through bushes
as the trigger finger bends
Let slip the dogs
back through the kennel door
Let slip
the safety into its catch
the pin into the heart of the grenade
Cry havoc
Cry
oh cry
Jennifer Highland’s poetry has appeared in Watershed Review, Rappahannock Review, Heron Tree, Josephine Quarterly, and elsewhere. She practices osteopathy in central New Hampshire.