Adam Home from the Wars

Sean Bishop

Yes, when the orchard's dolled up in pastels

and the finches scrawl cursive across the sky

and the big moon sags like a tit o'er the meadows,

I'll trade in my Glock for a pocket of dew.

And the wars will stop. And everyone

will do the dishes. And the lion

will sweetly go down on the lamb

as among the rifle casings the brambles

eject -- at last -- their thorns.

Once, on a bench by the river, the little ducks

seemed bread-sated and happy. I had my girl.

It was the Great Past Tense and everything was lovely.

Then, on the breeze: burnt spruce or a musk

of black powder and blood from a further field.

I made for my wound a poultice of wounds,

and the ones I wounded made poultices too.

We've come here this evening to give them to you.