The Report

Lines in the sand. Wage Peace, drawn in the sandbox and tweaked.

The prompt for today is to write a poem in the form of a report.

The Report

I. On the Attack
The attack (sorry) strike was surgical.
So surgical, in fact, that we can bomb your country
and take out your appendix in one swift, um, surgery.

II. On Yellow
This morning, I planted one hundred daffodils.
The forsythia is on fire with yellow blooms.
I have a feeling that next spring, I am going to need more yellow.

III. On the President’s Lawyer
The president’s lawyer. . .what? Wait.
Didn’t you hear us say that the strikes were surgical?
Refer to point I, above.

IV. On the Poetic Use of Dreams
Last night,
I dreamed that the Universe
held this whole trembling galaxy in her arms
and sang, “Everything is going to be fine.”
(Yes, that was last night’s real dream.
I did not make it up for this poem.)

V. On Casualties of the Attack
It was a strike.
We say “collateral damage.”
In a surgical strike,
there is technically
no collateral damage.

VI. On Deadnettle
The stubbly golden cornfields
are purple with deadnettle
When my nursling baby
tested high for lead,
I drank a witch’s tea
of deadnettle to draw
the poison from his tiny body.

VII. On Collateral Damage
One man’s collateral damage
is a woman’s child.
One man’s collateral damage
is a woman’s lover.
One man’s collateral damage
is a woman’s father.

VIII. On Safety
I have no fear of the airplanes
that fly low over the hollow.
I worry about active shooters
in my children’s schools,
fire, broken bones, and bullies.
A woman in Syria
worries about the dictator,
about the rebel forces,
about the U.S., and France,
and Britain. A woman in Syria
worries that her beloveds
may become collateral damage.
She worries that the strike
will be an attack,
and that it will not be surgical.

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