I.
The Lord Is a Man of War
The Lord is a man of war
I read by window and wick
and for once I believed
the book of Exodus true
the origin of our points sharpened
with fire our axes bows our pikes
and finally I could see
the cooling lava pits of their eyes
their giant gingko ears
their bellows of desert pain
how elephants became elephantry
how the woman who fevered with pox
became after death a weapon
a contagion to catapault over fortified walls
and finally I knew
why in this theater
the missiles are named
Savage Sinner Scapegoat
Peacekeeper and Goblet
Herren er en stridsmann
my descent is of the Vikings so
man is a Lord of war.
II.
Far Desert Region
Comes August, comes December,
then April thinned of its birds.
Again August, ten times.
Fathers forage the bombed chemical plant
for barrels to carry water
from the lime-bright pools to houses
leaning inside hot wind.
To think a war might give a gift:
a pool, a clean bucket.
III.
The Day-Shift Sleeps,
the night-war wakes:
Torturers button their canvas shirts.
They straighten their cots.
They bite their toast.
They tidy their folders.
They smoke their smokes.
They tidy their blank, blank folders.
All the little chores
before going on a trip,
theirs is the zeal of children.
IV.
[Does the war want
us to unstitch its side and climb in, to become
its good surgeon?
Stupid poet, a war can’t know
what it wants.]
