Apologia for Pat Benatar
You say love is a battlefield, & have
the choreography to prove it, but
it isn’t. Blasted trees, gouged earth, people
who were once other than things, a silence
that’s a type of blasphemy, where death
is depthless; a field of vision from which
all dimensions save one have been removed,
a flattening & then a fattening,
slaughter’s self-fulfilling prophecy:
that’s a battlefield. But have it your way.
One foot on the parapet, gun in hand.
Waiting for the signal to go over
the top. It’s okay. Most soldiers don’t know
what they’re fighting for until it’s too late.