long drives to war zones
with my invaders’ uniform on:
air raid sirens going off,
sniper in kitchen windows,
Gatling guns in her eyes;
I’m waiting to have my throat cut
in the name of peace and good will.
I will not go back to the front –
that failed mission of love:
you can have all the pictures,
hung on walls, of your fallen heroes;
but I was never a traitor
the way your heroes were –
and I wonder about your countrymen
who make altars to your suffering.
Though, it’s none of my business
and I couldn’t care less.
screaming at low volumes
