of marching,
choppers,
guerrillas,
and fire
in grainy color
engulf her. She salivates
at the uniforms,
missing limbs,
the honor.
How brave they must have all been--
had to be.
There was no choice then.
She who calls the peace seekers--
cowards.
The protestors--
weak.
Is the one
who ignores the explosion of words
in the other room.
While her child holds her knees--
shell shocked,
she says, “get over it.”
She, who when the bomb goes off,
runs
because the shrapnel in her daughter’s chest
is too much to see.
She--
a conscientious objector to the war
in her own home.
She will always ignore the cries
of her village burning--
the prisoner’s screams.
How insignificant is warfare
when it never leaves
the walls of a house?