One hand in his, the other waving
hello to the single-mother neighbor smoking
on the porch, her boys in the backyard
planning to invade the street with
water pistols and green
helmets and toy tanks. She tells you
not to rush into having kids.
On the balconies, cacti are blooming and
cockatiels have announced that spring is here.
It's a Sunday morning, crisp and
gold and lush, and you're
wearing a yellow dress that
doesn't care for the wind, flapping and
fluttering with hurried pace
and belly laughter.
He always zigzag-walks
trying to bump into you as you
cackle and run away.
Your hand in his again, you
slow down, catch your breath, almost home.
"On the double, hands up or I'll shoot", the
youngest boy jumps out of the bushes.
"Bug out! A bomb!", the other kid shouts.
They roll on the floor and hide behind bushes and
drop their soakers and run.
You blink
and everything becomes
slate grey
and rust. Gunpowder, you could never
mistake the smell. Your ears ringing, they'd
swear the screams are real.
You're back there,
steel mangled beside
downed power lines that
hum with volts.
Blood flooding out of eye sockets
and throats that loved song.
Your dress
is red and debris and fire.
The voices of reporters repeating
there are barely any survivors.
"Roger that", you mutter
and walk again,
leaving your heart at the battlefield.
