There’s a war out there.
Everyday I go out to meet it.
It has become an everyday event,
leaving you behind
with your beans and cornflowers,
leaving the dahlias you put
in a vase. You ask me what time
I’ll be heading home, to dinner,
to our places at the table
where I’ll tell you who I killed,
how they screamed in pain,
bled to death, and rose again.
You ask me what time I’d like
my tea, and if I need a cushion
while I clean my knife and gun.
The dahlias are sipping water,
nodding their heads in sleep.