What would I be but a liar if I did not confess that I too have felt that bloodlust which America fears so intimately. Once or twice I have trembled with the un- ceasing desire to watch he who would have my tongue fall to his knees. I have longed for my hand to grow braver than my words. This, I am neither proud nor ashamed of. It is what it is: a flight delay, a sly remark, a lingering stare. Yes, I am still alive — thank you for asking, and in asking assuring me I am alive but so is he who would have my tongue and this I am neither proud nor a- shamed of. This time before the plane a frowning woman with a badge asks me why I'm going where I'm going, poison dripping from her sad mouth, and I want to respond like a child, arms wide open, untethered by the fear of her gun. I want to say: fuck it means to you — cold blooded American what do you know of home, what is this tragic country but a broken house dreaming of get- ting fixed but I don't ask such a question, first because of the gun, second because the woman with the gun and the poison is not white, not a beast by the gate, yet she has a gun and badge and poison. It's true; America does not see color, almost as much as irony. At the movies every ad for a war film does a tremendous job of diversity: be- hold the cornucopia of mayhem, the spick and shine of death. Read closely: at the end of the trailer for 12 Strong there is a message in bold. The director and producer would like you to know, need you to know, that no horses were harmed in the making of this picture. What would I be but a fool to let the metaphor go, but then again what would I be but a lazy poet to not let the metaphor go — let sight and sound speak for themselves. No, I am not in Afghanistan — you are right to remind me. Yes, I am in an airport going a- way, again. No, this is not a war, at least not in the traditional sense, but there is still a gun held by an American who has a badge, a mouth full of poison and that is far more mundane than war. What would I be but hyperbolic to compare such petite fear to that which I have never lived? I got on the plane so it could not have been war.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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