I sip tea while men declare war
in my living room. They raise fists
on evening news, set a flag alight.
It burns, small country, in their hands.
Cameras cut to a young man in jeans,
spit curdling on lips like snowdrift.
He opens his mouth and cries.
Sparrows, remarks my husband,
and I turn to catch them
through the window, chestnut wings,
heads hooded and striped.
They bend to the backyard feeder,
plump monks at meditation.
On TV, protestors chant, breath tufting
into an iron sky, and I cannot help it:
I wonder if they’re cold. Who feeds them.
If they have mothers who love them.
Our Christmas tree still twinkles bright bullets.
Men shove hands, child-like, into downy coats,
call for others to be dressed in blood.
Photo credit: ANIM Photography, Creative Commons, Flickr