War

Some shape of her hips
Thrusts her into the walkway,
CLUNK CLUNK CLUNK
like the prow of a ship,
but that’s not the way she wants to go,
fangs biting into her heels like bats,
syruping blood into saran-wrap
and the smell of something young,
Clinging like Arovell, my Israel,
and not. “Take me home,”
take me home ‘cause I can’t syrup anything.
The CLUNK thrill of the CLUNK CLUNK nightmare,
CLUNK it all, like the prow of the ship
whispering off the calligraphic wisps of the mountains
drawn by your plume, which was drawn
into a tall, illusion bow.
Not take one, not tie one, but
hold one, torture one,
still standing by the grand piano
where I played Joy and everyone forgot it.
All of us with a thousand roses, a thousand heroes,
a thousand Egyptian kings, and angels,
CLUNK CLUNK CLUNK CLUNK
down from the English chamber,
syruping blood into mountain quills,
loaded, drawn—