That’s what it is now.
A chase.

Every day
begins with questions:

how soon before
they catch us,
how soon before
we break away
and get to safety
on the high ground?

They don’t understand
that in fact, we’re ahead.
That we’re far enough ahead
that their old dodges
to snare us into loss — 

their dogs
and dog whistles,
their chains
and the chains of etiquette, 
their ropes
and their bad rope-a-dope,
their bullets 
and
those miles of policy strung out on
hollow point PowerPoints,

aren’t cutting it
any more.

They
can’t catch up so
they
keep running like
we’ll get tired
before we win. Like
we’re behind them and

we’re not.

We will win.  We
haven’t got a choice,
really. Safety’s
ahead, not behind.

How soon before they catch us?
That’s not the right question: try, 
instead:

how soon before we turn
to meet them? How soon before
we catch them with these
very hands? What then?

The man says I’m too savage.
Says we all need less blood in the mouth these days.

The man says, as much as was torn from you, that much you must reject.
I tell him he cannot know what the tearing is like and it continues.

I tell him how many of us are covered in fresh bite marks.
I tell him I can see him picking his teeth.

He says, you are right, that biting was bad, but do not bite back.
I say, you are right, the biting is bad, which cheek do you want to bite now?

He says, I think you do not understand what you invite with your biting.
I say, do you think I want to be eaten forever?

I ask him, do you think I want to eat you as you have eaten so many?
I tell him how sick we are with his love of our blood.

I tell him we do not want to get sick on his blood.
I tell him we are barely moving from lack of blood and muscle.

He says, but you cannot meet biting with biting and win.
I tell him, we don’t bite to win but to stop your biting.

He says, don’t bite me, for I am afraid of your hunger.
I tell him we can talk when he stops chewing.

I tell him we can all see he’s been chewing this whole time.
I tell him enough, stop talking to me with your mouth so full and red.

He cannot spit out my flesh and blood to answer.
I think he is less afraid of choking than he is of being bitten.

I do love apples:

how they bite back,
how they resist. Their
snap and thick punch.
How all that fight 
illuminates their sweetness.

Sometimes I eat 
two apples, one right
after the other. I eat my fill
and feel ready, taking on
apple-warrior-soul
as armor. 

Oh, come on, you say,
all this silly talk of apples
when there’s a war on —
talk to me of bullets or
barricades or dark swords.
Talk to me of fire and 
surging masses 
pressing forward toward 
victory.

I say that I know that some prefer
red meat before their battles.
Some tear into flesh
and sneer at those
who cannot or will not. 

I have neither fear of meat
nor any distaste for it — but

call me what you want:
just give me an apple
with which to face 
any given Goliath
and I’m ready — even if
when my time comes
all I can do is slip it
into my sling and take aim,
I will do that
with a singing, snapping
red tang to my attack,

and after, whether or not
I survive, there will be
peace in my apple-full belly

as I hope there will be peace
in yours 
regardless of what sustains you
through battle.

Five in a room in a snowstorm,
talking of the cold. Talking
of the way home, how bad
the road will be,
how warm it is in here. 

It is warm in here,
isn’t it?  Almost as if there’s no
storm spitting intermittently,
glassing the pavements, 
crusting the cars they’ll need
soon enough.  

The woods that surround
this sanctuary grow more and more
ominous. Some would say not ominous,
but peaceful.  It depends
on where you’re standing —
out in the cold among the trees,
or in a room in a warm building.
Under the trees, peace;
in the room, anxiety. 

Five in a room in a storm
with the woods all around
and danger waiting on the road
all of them will soon be traveling.

Outside, some are traveling already.
Some have been traveling a long time;
their whole lives, in fact.
What is it they see
when they pass the room
and catch a glimpse of
the five inside? Nothing,
really.  They might notice
a light and some privilege

but they know better
than to take their eyes
off the road
in weather like this.

“The air is crisp.”

They always say that
when it’s gotten colder. 
It seems right sometimes
but then the question:
how so? Does it
shatter when
someone walks through it?
Small flakes of it like
smashed potato chips
littering the ground? 
If enough people
walk through crisp air
will it eventually be
too broken
to sustain life? 

It’s gotten colder.
The air is beginning
to shatter from all
these people marching
under orders, all those
marching against orders.
Some are struggling 
to breathe. Some have
already stopped.

People also say
that spring 
always follows winter,
but it’s hard to imagine 
hearing the approach of
any warming breeze 
over these sounds of 
choking and breaking,
the crackling
of shards of frozen air.

They say the air will 
get softer soon. They say
wait and see. They say
a lot of things.

I wrote poems,
a lot of poems.

At the time
it seemed to many to be
an indulgence.

But now it seems
I wasn’t writing poems
as much as I was 
making bullets and 
planting seeds: bullets
for the moment, seeds
for the future.

Sometimes
one poem would be
both — those were the times
I think I was at my best. 

I do not like war —
I am not one of those
whose blood sings with it.
But there were times,
I admit, 
when I’d look
at what I’d written
and say, there’s one
that will hurt, there’s one
that will sprout later,
and I would sit back 
and say, there. There
it is.  I mean,

why do you fight a war
except for the chance
to hear poems
when it’s over?

(Which is why they killed
some of us,
you know.  It wasn’t
safe — not as dangerous
as some things, but still,
they killed some of us
not because
our bullets hurt them
but because our seeds
terrified them.)

When you ask me
what I did in the war,
I tell you this: it wasn’t
as much as some did,
but it was everything 
I could do — an indulgence,
maybe, but I did it with
my hands and it took
all the strength I had on
some days, some nights,
when the firefights came close
and I thought I would or should 
die but nonetheless I
kept the lamp on above the paper
as I tried to make a better world
with my pen.

“In the wee small hours of the morning…”

A Sinatra song on his mind. Commercials for 
Miracle Prosperity Spring Water on his TV, and he’s
tempted to call. It’s not worth it, he knows, but what if?

“While the whole wide world is fast asleep…”

It’s the wee small hours of the morning of Election Day.
Does it matter what he does now? Vote one way, 
vote the other; will it ever be 1955 again? 

“When your lonely heart has learned its lesson…”

Whether or not he votes, he loses. Whether or not he 
wins, he loses. Perfect time to buy what they’re selling.
Perfect time to croon, sip, and try to go back to sleep.

I was born into killing,
into loving the killers,
I lived in a killing. I 
breathed murder, I slept
on a pillow of carnage
and gore, but because I knew
nothing else, I never
slept so well in my life.

I woke from that
and lived among those
who gentled me.  I learned
of something beyond
easy blooding,
and when I slept 
I stirred often in my sleep
now and again for fear of
the killing’s return.  

Now, after small sleep,
I am back among killers,
born again to the circle
of slaughter. I recognize 
the scent, the thick, sick
air; this time, though, I have
a taste of what it could mean
to know nothing of this, 
and I thank stars and moon
I will never be able
to sleep again.