Domestic Warfare

Bombshells in
the bedroom rip through
furniture like
a couple city blocks, 

explosions haunt
the airwaves
our old radios
still pick up.

And not to
rub it in but
dubbing it tough love was like

aiming rockets at
our feet and calling
it altruism.

It obscured
our vision, mountains
of shrapnel in the
chalk-coloured distance.

These horizons just
aren’t compatible with
co-habitation so I lay ribbons
and wreaths like memorials for
free speech

adjacent to
the place our
living room
mantles
fell.

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5 thoughts on “Domestic Warfare

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