The war is lying face down
on a hard cot. Legs twitch,
breathing gets hard. I think
the war is dreaming much as
a dog dreams. People always say
a dog dreams of running when
they see its legs jerk like that.
Truth is, we don’t know what
dogs dream and neither do we know
what the war is dreaming about
except that it is not likely
to be anything good. Not like peace
offers much more than the war
to everyone, certainly not
to those who fight, not
to those who die, not to those
left behind. When the war lies
there on its face, kicking and
whimpering, all I can think of is
hope and hate: hope it doesn’t
turn over so I can see
its restless, mashed up face;
hate the idea of the war waking,
turning face up, seeing me.
