War Poem

This is a war poem.
The bodies in it are blasted
all over the page:
arms, legs torn off
at the sockets,
guts spilling untidily
onto your clean
white mind.

This is a war poem.
The rhythms in it
are sung from a fractured
culture
like an anachronism.

This is a war poem.
Men have made it
and lived it
and breathed its barbarian
glory.

This is womb.
Women have carried it
inside them
to breed new heroes.

This war poem could
become a womb
and in it
we could all,
poet and reader
and war monger,
curl up together
and be born
again
and again
and again.

Copyright by Carolyn Zonailo: www.carolynzonailo.com, 2004