Say it straight, say it clear: no war is acceptable,
not the necessary ones, not the ones given nature names:
Operation Dawn, Operation Harvest, words of abundance
and fertility dressed in uniforms and marched out to do
some neat killing, while somewhere a report is being formatted,
its margins clean as mortuary steel, with crafted justification,
and the share price ascends the way smoke climbs,
moving from the ground, indifferent to that which burns below.

In the offices the lanyards swing like knives over canapés,
as a salesman explains guidance systems the way a sommelier
explains a finish, notes of iron, a long dry aftertaste,
and the suited men with washed hands sign it with nods,
saying with feign voice: regrettable, complex, both sides,
like a coin corroded they’ve owned forever and a day.

A photographer is at work with a lens on a sandal in the
rubble that seems to keep the shape of the foot,
and a fridge that hums in a kitchen with no ceiling and
no one to open it becomes a new work of art for a gallery.

But in the dark, yes, the dark, a woman carries water
four kilometres and does not make the news,
for the news is busy with those brave rectangles,
flapping with gusto in the parade ground breeze,
while the dead with straight fingers point at the
margins in the report with names (so many names),
so much ash to cover the head with grief while
the smoke climbs and the operation is a success.

 

7/8/2026