To Our
Enemies
This is no
poem that knows if
armies
must do what they do,
but after
bombs have fallen,
in the
time of brickdust rising,
of looking
out as a mole would, with eyes
too small
to take in the lighted world;
the time
of sirens and moaning, of desperate
searches,
of an anger that would lift everything
and put it
back into place if anyone
could
harness its force--
is this
when peace begins?
We hope
so.
We donšt
want to die, too.
Because we
are able to point
to what
should be saved, and what destroyed,
we have
done this.
No one is
grateful.
This is a
poem that wants to say 'love',
but here
in Casino America, where the time
is always
the same (outside, heat or rain,
starlight
or smoke--who knows?)
all we
have are mirrors and money
and a
belief in honoring
urges. Nobody wants to get old.
We who are
made of wanting,
how can we
love what we see in the mirrors?
How can we
love you?
Charlotte
Muse