Maybe you found History
comfortably napping on your couch
and a delicate frown nudged a chord within.
But me, I see him turbaned
charging the walls at Istanbul
his yataghan held high; and
a child, his eyes bulging
seeing nothing
save a soldier-father
blankly in convoy driven by.
Have your chat with the Queen
or go to the convenience store for milk and cookies.
I smell the farmer’s plow-furled soil
damply sheen and earthen tangy
while in the boundary ditch unseen
—like Icarus in Breughel’s vision—
a wife locks jaws and whimper-grunts
bloodily birthing her tenth.
Then, with deliberate and lingering moves
she tears her faded charcoal dress
and bundles the newborn for our walk to town.
