love letter from a war prevented
let the poets take charge
I’m the wife of a revolutionary
from an uprising that will never be written
it’s too quiet now; we’re too much apart
our love story isn’t Broadway stuff
in the war that didn’t happen, we were
tireless; small incendiaries planted everywhere
like narcissi waiting to bloom in violent clouds
of truth, hopefully in the right season
our future was at stake — meaning all of us –
even those who fussed with epaulets and
counted kittens, those who knew
the camera puts ten pounds on you
you know we never met — too busy
burying the maps we traced against the enemy
but I was loyal, yes, even imprisoned once
or twice, and I flayed myself in those beds
I’m no traitor; not a martyr, no — I have sinned
I look around and see ease-of-access
oblivious sonnets, green knives
soft young soldiers pulling on boots
for the next rally-cry; I am tired
scarred, but not by regrets
my heart is solid; his head was cloudy
as any revolutionary’s would be
some days I’m unsure he knows
the children we’ll never bear can’t play
our story-songs — no marquees, just lovers
in a dangerous time, that’s all, and the world
will carrion like it’s just another day.
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