When war got in your blood,
young & eager, you found the enemy,
and the world aligned its poles.
You trained your soul for slaughter,
eating snakes in the desert,
naked flesh and sand
and sun baking the universe -
men must avoid becoming leaves.
You trust your eyes and nose.
A woman soldier laughs
in her enemy tent with comrades.
The poles must align,
so you reverse that inner empathy,
disembowel her among them,
like a snake burned on a stick
so enemies will fear you
and people still fear you
long after the poles shifted
and new sand buried the old
and your fellow warriors slipped between
like fluids in a stiff backbone
that still holds the same war
high on a stick, terrifying
enemies in your eyes
© 2009 OMYMA
