July 2021
Sarah White
sarahwhitepages@gmail.com
Bio Note: I took this poem from a book where all the poems are about war (Wars Don’t Happen Anymore — Deerbrook Editions, 2015). They don’t follow the Editor’s theme of the month unless you consider that, in the heat of war, heads are lost by everybody. I live in New York City, writing and painting. My chapbook of sonnets, Fledgling, is forthcoming from Word Tech Communications.

“War feels to me like an Oblique place”
		(Emily Dickinson, in a letter to T.W. Higginson )
 
I like to think that every father, 
leaving in the morning for a war, 
bids a passionate farewell the night before. 
I trust his kids allow him to be alone
with Mom. I think the tykes, unsure 
exactly what their assigned duties are,
will respect a closed bedroom door.
 
I like to think Dad will write to his son
and daughter separately, not on just one 
postcard with the picture of a plane. 
“Dear Sally. This is what my plane 
is like. PS: Tell your brother…” 
Laying down the card, she mutters
“Dad, you tell him. Don’t be so lame.”
 
I like to think Andromache slept late
the morning Hector went to meet his slayer. 
I hope she had to wait for them
to bring back her mate’s beautiful body  
and the once comely face
every Greek had helped to mutilate.
 
I’d like a world where all massacres are chess
games. “Shah Mat!” the adversaries
cry, dropping captured pieces
in a black velvet bag where darkness cures 
their wounds. Here, no soldiers are doomed. 
They aren’t even born. 
They are as mythical as unicorns.
Originally published in Wars Don’t Happen Anymore Deerbrook Editions, 2015
©2021 Sarah White
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