I am so very sorry for the war I declared on my body
and I am also sorry it is one you will never win.
War that comes to mind is loud as landmine explosions,
amputations, the roar of rubble and gunfire
that rattles bones, chainmail, armor made steel or khaki.
Nothing left but a burning canvas satchel
and his shoelaces. I was taught that war could deafen.
War can also be quiet. Quiet as something stillborn.
Quiet as the small weak growl of stomach
begging for food, as hands slipping apart, a lost grip.
Quiet as a gas leak.
