March 19, 2003
Brand new baby, nursing
from my full breast in
the crook of my elbow,
half drinking, half dreaming,
me wondering if his dad
will ever hold him. The TV on,
the whistle of a bomb, amber
and ruby raindrops fall from
the sky as I sit glued to
my brown chair. I see my husband,
easy blue eyes, pressing a
red button with his thumb
from the back seat of his
jet, releasing a missile
that could kill an enemy, or
a child. The distance from the cloud
to the ground is too great to
know what’s ablaze. Is that fireball
heading for his plane? I try
to breathe but concrete
fills my lungs.
I don’t know if the two of us
will be bonded to this brown chair
forever, watching the world burn.