On Wartime

The National Guard is conducting
live fire training
five miles away,
rattling our windows,
frightening the dog,
startling my jittery
shell-shocked soul,
driving home the point.

My 11 year old
draws a grenade,
explains to me how it works,
which is easier to survive,
grenade in water or grenade on land.
She learned this on YouTube 
from some scientists
performing safety experiments.

This experimental 
empathy,
this walk in the
shoes of another,
this drawing breath
while a sister sighs her last,
baby in her womb sighing, too,

This longing for peace,
it combines and shreds to shrapnel
the way things were,
stripping them back,
revealing what has been before
and before and before.

My slippered feet
are comfortable in shearling
while yours are sore from
walking, running
fighting, waiting

for the other shoe to drop.

I cannot comprehend
this.

In the morning
I return to my poem,
am interrupted by a
clogged shower drain
and the sound of 
rehearsing helicopters
overhead.

3/15/22