War in Eurasia

We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves. - Orwell, 1984

We sleep like guard dogs, one eye open, groomed to unlock 

from one another’s folds. Older, a cooler grey than our adult 

years. Your breast, like a forbidden prayer or scent or thought,

presses against my arm. The war in Eurasia rages on. The dull  


flicker of the TV; the news anchor’s lips tattooed a deep 

party red mouthing vowels: A and E, and O – not I or U. 

Everything in black and white, or streams of sepia.

We hardly remember the difference between the news


and truer truths; the sum of two plus two. Harvest seasons 

pass. Dictionaries yield a sulphury marsh gas. Winters sprout

days of halcyon, golden wheat. We yearn for myths that lean on 

goddesses of crops, a mother’s loss and rage, a revenge drought. 


Love is the warrior’s call. We knew it in the womb, first breath, 

when we were made to choose: a dying art, or this waking death.





.

Copyright © 2022  M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved.

Published in Sequestrum, Issue 32, June 2022.

amber-214x154_edited.jpg
bce.jpg