Molded Thus

There was some violence in my childhood. I've done well to not recreate it in my family but it remains in me.

When I see an abused animal react in an unusual way, I can understand. I watch all the exits, clock everyone coming and going. I rest when I’m surrounded by loved ones and it feels extra sweet. This poem is for Christine M. who understands.

                        Molded Thus

                  It begins when I say,
        “What is this before mine eyes,
                  a sword in my hand 
             and sheath upon my waist?”
                      I had forgotten 
                I needed such a thing
                     but here we are,
              me armed and you…not.

                   Long ago I asked,
                      shall I beat my
              sword into plowshares? 
             Isn’t that the progression
                  preferred by poets?
                     But one fine day
                   I might find myself
              idyllically tilling my fields,
                  only to see a horde
                        upon my hill.
        Perhaps they need vegetables.
                Perhaps they do not.
              Did I keep one weapon
       hanging above my work bench?
              Just one to remind me
                  of that life of hate.
                       I left it but it
                   could still find me.

                    Taking up arms
                   is not costuming,
                   it is a resumption
                   of the willingness
                  to kill and be killed.
              When should that ever
                 have been a choice 
                     for a boy born
                      to love birds?

              Like bullets in a mold
              some of us are made
                   and thus made
                pointless in peace.

                         6/2022