The Case For War

I was always told,
“Pick your battles,”
but that was one piece of advice
I was not able
to follow. No,

my battle picked me
when I was young
and tattooed a new name,
“Casus Belli,”
on my sword shoulder.

Threw its own
meaty slug of an arm
over me, pointed me
at a corner, said,
“Stand there.

Let them come to you,
don’t be more afraid
than them, and turn loose
everything I’ve taught you,
every time.”

Now, after all these years,
I’m a pretty hyena laughing
as I gnaw you down.  I’m ready
to admit the transitory fun
I have…but know I didn’t

choose this role,
I’ve just made the most
of a bad moment
that never
seems to end.

Let me promise you
that I’m truly ashamed
of how good it feels
to let the sharp edge
swing.  In all my dreams I see

a vulture singing
for me, a carrion fly
in my ear…and I know
what meal they’re waiting
to enjoy,  so know I am no happy-go-lucky

warrior.  I just can’t escape
my first kill, who
has never left me.
He wants your arm
for his arm.  He wants

to see me fall
the way he fell, and pushes
on my back every time
I see the apparently easy mark
of my next attack.

When I come for you,
remember this.  Release me from it
if you can.  I long for it,
or rather he does, and somewhere
the first battle that picked me

is sleeping soundly,
secure in the wisdom
of what happens when
that name is given to a scared young man
and he is handed a weapon

he will soon learn to love
more than he could ever
love himself.  I doubt he stirs
much in his sleep.  I bet
he couldn’t tell me my real name.

Tags: poems, poetry, meditations