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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

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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,

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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

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the top. It’s okay. Most soldiers don’t know

what they’re fighting for until it’s too late.