My wife takes my hand as the first volley hits

~after Edward Kienholz's "The Portable War Memorial"

In waking dreams I climb unreal mountains of pallid skin
and curl my body into ecstatic positions
of worship and reverence and despair.

I watch the flag of divine right, destiny
manifested in starlight patchwork,
raze the capitals of countries and kingdoms.

I watch and I listen.

I watch and I listen
for the era of war, of error,
to end.

I watch and I listen
for the perfumes of bombed alleyways
to find their way home, for streets so flooded
with bodies of the displaced.

I can only hope that the aluminum faces
of partisan leaders will one day crumple
into weeping.

I can only hope that their wrought-iron backs
will bend in embraces, that their copper hearts
will oxidize and bleed Lorca’s green love.

I can only ask that you, too,
watch and listen

for breath
for swelling
for wind pregnant with hope.