Not enough home, not enough land
It’s always three years since
one tragedy
or another, though
they mount, one atop
another, like poorly domesticated
animals, especially when the weather
warms up, since historically
guns hibernate
during the winter, and make
baby bullets in the spring;
that’s how revolutions are
born, though most are still
waiting for conception, waiting
to be loaded into arm cannons
hurling rocks at bystanders
who may very well be just
as guilty as armor-clad
peacekeepers, who only exercise
violence when
it suits them. I once debated
birthright versus heritage
and lost,
though the fight was fixed
and had been for at least
a thousand years; anything shorter
is just a brawl unworthy of more
than cursory mention, and yet
we all use Arabic numbers, and our
alphabet still starts with Aleph:
common memes should be
enough on which to build
a peace accord, or at least
an afford, because choosing
war is a lifestyle choice;
an olive branch can extend beyond
a barrier, a wall can be built
from words, and shaped around
people; one checkpoint is not
enough, but all who try in earnest
and make progress should pass:
there is no passing grade for
conflict, no honor
society; a wall can run forever
in one direction, but there are lines
we should never cross: bite into
a lemon if you seek bitterness;
why is there never enough
pomegranate syrup to share,
or a point where ploughshares
can cross without clashing.