I wrote a poem for you
about the sun and how it burns, violent,
but maybe the better way to phrase this
is the sun and everything else
that is also the sun.
Somehow, boiling oil poured
down stone walls and off bridges
onto helpless warriors
was sunshine and a metaphor for undoing
in my head, notably
because it involved one body of liquid in freefall
and one body—many actually—suffering the consequences notably
burned. I’ve been thinking lately.
Maybe we’re not the oil and the fighters
like I thought we were. Maybe we’re just
the before. The silence of apprehension,
the heaviness of hesitation, two bodies
not yet distinguishable by temperature.
Admittedly, we take opposite sides
of the wall—left and right—or the bridge—above
or below.
And, admittedly, we do wear different colors.
Logically, a battle
involving heat of any kind will end
with one half-charred, half-bubbling
overflowing with laments that I-shouldn’t-have-come-here.
Instead, look at us: bird’s eye view: cross-sections of time:
so the memory doesn’t paint us something else:
if you look
this way
we look
as if we could be the same. And maybe that’s what I’m trying to say.
Remember, I’m talking about the before. Before the heat means anything.
Before the heat means burning something to death, specifically.
The before looks like this: impatient waiting,
mutual hatred of zero-sum games,
thoughts of I-just-want-to-live-another-day.
I’m trying to say we’re the same.
I’m trying to say the disaster hasn’t happened yet, but it can
and will if we don’t put it out before we start it.
I’m trying to say the wall or the bridge or whatever
will produce a winner and a loser and I
don’t want to stick around to find out.
Is that so absurd?
I’m trying to say let’s not destroy things if we don’t have to.
Let’s not stain any walls,
not break any bodies, not singe the ground.
I’m trying to say
let’s not burn any bridges.