Notes About The Poem

image from reuters.com
SUBTRACTION AND LONG DIVISION
They tally the dead in columns of light,
but no ledger holds the weight of a child’s last breath~
the way it lingers, unspent, in the air,
like a kite cut loose from its string.
War has no pockets deep enough
to carry all the excuses we stitch
into its uniform. Every bullet
that misses its mark
finds a name anyway.
And what of the hands that never held a gun,
only bread, only the hem of a mother’s dress?
They become the subtraction
no one speaks aloud~
the hollow where laughter once lived.
And what’s left?
A remainder called guilt,
sticky as jam on a rifle stock,
thick as the lies they stamp onto medals.
War doesn’t solve.
War is the long division
that never ends.
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