Letters from the Front.
I bought a Che Guevara T-shirt
and vowed my revolution,
But I have yet to wear it –
It’s still hanging in my closet
beside the blue jeans I had on
when we abandoned our stalemate.
I know they’re the ones –
There’s still ammunition in the pocket,
and grass stains on the knees …
It would have been easier by bayonet, by bullet,
instead of by degrees,
but we always were so stubborn,
waiting on the wait and see …
no stomach for execution.
Ours is a language of pine cones and razorblades,
but this flesh can only take so much.
Like the paper of our letters,
like the jeans that are my uniform,
we are weaker than we think,
more used up than we know,
and worn out at the knees …
I am open to suggestion. I am open to solution.
And in the quiet between fire, we could trade absolution.
Cause I tell you that I doubt that we know what we are doing,
And if you see a way out, I will follow you into it.
You are not my enemy. You are not my enemy.
We get no peace of armistice
from these battles in our hearts -
No one gets their way. No one gets away.
We are the POWs
of our abbreviated sin,
wielding our grenades
with all the pins half-in.
And we are down upon our knees …
© Heather Lloyd