Standing Down

We watch the news in silence, one tan-sandy image

of war after another, promises made and broken,

serious sunburned faces of soldiers who barely need

to shave. I look away until the weatherman props

himself in front of a pulsing cartoon sun – all clear

according to his forecast – then something in me breaks.

Last night's dishes huddle in the sink – towels retreat

into the darkest part of the closet. Even the dog cowers,

in the corner, a whiff of gunpowder singeing the air. I

microwave some popcorn, and hundreds of miniature

explosions beat the paper bag mercilessly like little

gunshots against a flak jacket.  I know I am a coward.

All it would take is a decision, a choosing to let go. They

say prisoners both love and fear their captors – maybe

it's a little like that, this churning of the gut, this longing.

You move toward me; I am laying down arms. I do not

resist your apology, your embrace, as the talk show host

on the television poses an age-old question about love.

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