We call it war
when the last teacup cracks
and the kettle wails.
We call it war
like hope settles
in the evening dust.
We call it war
as we take oranges to bed
peeling them in the glow
of the teal, TV light.
We call it war
when it’s far, distant, & elsewhere—
when it’s always been
the weighted specter
sitting in the other room.
We wait, untalking,
holding breath, wondering,
what will happen
to this bouquet of
marigolds, sunflowers & chestnuts?
Art by Ivan Marchuk, “Tenderness” 1984, cardboard, tempera.