Poetry Warfare

I huddle over the fire
Deciding what to do about the stew
Cold in his bowl
I make a foil packet meal
That fails
Smores then banana boats
Then fiddle with my top button to itch at a scar
Can I see? He finally intones
I unbutton another and another
Then stretch the shirt to show the start of a thick scar forming beneath stitches
And the rest?
The first part is yours and so I show you your handiwork,
But the rest was all me
I button two buttons
I’ll speak it into existence
Because you taught me that’s what poetry can be
Pain and scars
I also taught you, he stands, to prepare and accept the wound. No matter who gives it.
Ah, but now you talk of love.
Do not fool yourself girl, all poetry is love.
All poetry is hell.
He bows, strings a couple arrows, then stands to read at the poetry reading’s podium.
I prepare for a wounding.


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