There are soldiers in mother’s hair

and soldiers coming in the window.

Distracted? I am driven.

I can’t stop chattering

with history hissing its heat.

Grave raincoat-shouldered people

with their own histories, bad

histories, drink to their bitterness

and chide us for our efforts.

What is there other than I forget?

I can’t read the papers or your face

on the phone. Give it up is the answer, is

is the answer, aghast as a verb.

The rain’s washed most of our skin off.

How does it feel during a war?

A silence stirs.