Sons of/and money

Sure, I’ve never seen war, but I’m still bitter.
My country is still bombing.
My country that says I get to decide.

I’ve never wanted to bomb
countries I’ve never seen
but hear are full of people.

My country doesn’t want me to see
their bodies or their anguish or even
the beauty of their countryside.

I’ve never met anyone from Afghanistan
unless you count the American veteran who said,
“No, it’s not made of rubble, it’s the most beautiful

place I’ve ever seen.” I decided again no more bombs,
but see? The mother.
I am not the mother of bombs.

My own mother taught me this.
She died with a bumper sticker
taped to the inside back window

of her last car: in hopes she’d soon
be able to take it down. It said:
End less this war.

She’d taped it there 16 years ago.
She just died of natural causes
like a broken heart.

She taught me not to let them take
one’s sons to war. I aborted any sons.
I’d like to abort this mission, sir.

My country answers, these are your bombs,
so you must pay for them.
I grit my teeth to rubble.

I spit again: these are not my bombs.
Yes, he insists, these are your bombs
because you paid for them.

I will not pay.
I will not make enough money to
owe you anything,
country who calls itself mine.

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