“When you leave, it tastes like World War Three
and I want to ask,
did you think about the fallout?
Did you think about the waste,
about the radiation down to
Did you think about Hiroshima,
bombs dropped like teeth,
bodies pressed against the street,
did you think about the poems they would write?
Did you think about our Sunday nights,
about the sitcoms and the dramas,
did you think about the way I loved you?
We never knew how to cherish right,
falling apart at the seams continuously,
and, yeah, it was ugly.
But it was ours.
That counts for something,
between the bruises and cracked bones,
that I still kept locks of your hair beneath
my pillow for the nights you were
busy playing ping-pong with bombs,
crawling the streets to avoid the
air raid alarms of my anger –
with all our brick shelter breakfasts
and gas mask nights,
your wrists, still two pale lines of gunpowder love songs.
Here, I held a vigil,
because I loved you through the war.”—World War III |d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)