I Can’t Think
about you today.
There is no room to squeeze
you in. Your face, an extra frame
beside the trunk,
where I keep the pictures
my son outgrew.
He left for war today dragging
my voice till the airplane
slipped earth.
What was there to say?
Bullets will only deaden my words
as new phrases emerge,
like collateral damage, and
friendly fire.
This theatre isn’t rated
for families. He’ll hide
these stories, become
someone else.
Newscasts draw my eyes,
like a body on the road.
Everyday another battle.
If you want to help,
sit with me in the waiting
room,
a clock on every
wall.
Margaret Rutley
From BC,