Seven Word War

Do you hear the war drums beating?

They are yours.
The marching of the soldiers,
the chant of rifles and the music
of the ricocheting bullets
singing out across my land.

I see the shock in your eyes,
your hands pointing at your chest,
your lips mouthing, "Me?"

And I nod yes, in reply.
You. I point to the swaths of gauze
layered on my skin.
I look to you and again you ask,
once more I answer,
a slight inclination of the head.

The lost sleep in my eyes,
the bruises, the cuts, oh,
how could you not know
who did this?

Perhaps when I am gone,
you will see that moment flash before your eyes.

Again, you will look
down the long, straight barrel.
Mockingly, you will finger the trigger
and without a worry you will squeeze.

After all this time, this waiting
your memory will finally admit
that you felt the recoil, the powerful
shove of the smooth wood against your shoulder
as a tiny missile rocketed into space.

You will then know that I was not lying
when I told you
these burned plains,
the desecrated villages,
bodies turning to dirt in the fields,
they are yours.

The marching will go on.