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.