Some days I imagine a field of glass
endless and shimmering:
whispers on the wind of the children who once played
of the women who once loved.
Some days I imagine a sky of gray
nuclear ash
that is three-parts fission,
two-parts city,
and one part human flesh;
an entire culture erased.
Some days I imagine
what the world could be
with forty-five hundred more
artists
authors
musicians
technicians
inventors
dreamers
lovers
sons
daughters
fathers
mothers.
Some days I imagine
what the world would be like
with four thousand families
who do not have to hold reunions
in Arlington.

There are only so many times
you can hear of your brother nearly dying
before you imagine these things.

I am a broken work in progress
an emotional casualty of a senseless conflict.

Who says that the families at home
do not fight the same war?