blessed are the warmakers
when they write about us,
do you think they'll call us a
product of our times?
are we byproduct of a revolution
unseen and mostly unfelt, worlds away
where someone stands with
their finger on the trigger or
their hand above the button?
someone, somewhere, drops a bomb.
in our here and now, i drop a pan
and it clatters to the floor,
startling me from a reverie i never knew
i could still indulge in.
last year, the mountains were on fire,
and this year, it hasn't stopped raining
since January, maybe? the old folks
say something is strange here,
something is changing
and our tomatoes rotted on the vine,
bursting with ants
who marched across the wire cages
like lines of soldiers, invading.
someone, somewhere, has their finger
on an unlocked trigger.
in our here and now, i stand on tiptoes
to reach the onions on the high shelf.
we say stay vulnerable but
run bomb drills in our classrooms
and think, listen, i know nothing more
than the idea: someone, somewhere,
drops a bomb. it could be anyone--
it could be me, with my fingers on a keyboard
choosing death like buying a new sweater.
we kill parts of ourselves with alarming regularity,
plucked from us like unwieldy splinters--
all this to say, i can only cry when
i am cutting onions,
and it feels like i've lost something, somewhere
but i think i have given it away.
the history books may not remember us,
specifically, the ones who can't or won't
acknowledge— a single cog, bent,
stops the wheel.
when the story is written they will call us
cowards, products of our time, products
of a revolution half a world away,
unseen and mostly unfelt.
hail the revolutionary! hail the king!
the wheel grinds to a halt,
crunching bones between gears.
someone, somewhere,
takes their finger off the trigger.
when they write about us,
do you think they'll call us a
product of our times?
are we byproduct of a revolution
unseen and mostly unfelt, worlds away
where someone stands with
their finger on the trigger or
their hand above the button?
someone, somewhere, drops a bomb.
in our here and now, i drop a pan
and it clatters to the floor,
startling me from a reverie i never knew
i could still indulge in.
last year, the mountains were on fire,
and this year, it hasn't stopped raining
since January, maybe? the old folks
say something is strange here,
something is changing
and our tomatoes rotted on the vine,
bursting with ants
who marched across the wire cages
like lines of soldiers, invading.
someone, somewhere, has their finger
on an unlocked trigger.
in our here and now, i stand on tiptoes
to reach the onions on the high shelf.
we say stay vulnerable but
run bomb drills in our classrooms
and think, listen, i know nothing more
than the idea: someone, somewhere,
drops a bomb. it could be anyone--
it could be me, with my fingers on a keyboard
choosing death like buying a new sweater.
we kill parts of ourselves with alarming regularity,
plucked from us like unwieldy splinters--
all this to say, i can only cry when
i am cutting onions,
and it feels like i've lost something, somewhere
but i think i have given it away.
the history books may not remember us,
specifically, the ones who can't or won't
acknowledge— a single cog, bent,
stops the wheel.
when the story is written they will call us
cowards, products of our time, products
of a revolution half a world away,
unseen and mostly unfelt.
hail the revolutionary! hail the king!
the wheel grinds to a halt,
crunching bones between gears.
someone, somewhere,
takes their finger off the trigger.
B. N. Wattenbarger is a poet and author living in the American South. Her poetry has been featured by Nightingale & Sparrow, Laurels and Bells, and more. When she isn't writing, she can usually be found making coffee.