on the occasion of my four year-old son learning how to draw a peace sign

I am sitting here
thinking about sitting here



thinking about the photos of
all of those paintings of krasner's
that no longer exist



i am thinking
of course
about pollock


about myself and my past
and my children



the need for beauty
in the face of pain

and i'm reading a letter
sent to me by a woman i know,

something about a crack addict
beaten by her boyfriend



about the baby she gave birth to



i am reading the part where
she writes this story makes me
think of you
and what I feel is tired



what i refuse to believe in
is america



the strip malls
and the funeral homes
and the bloodthirsty smiles of
                               politicians



the carefully trimmed nails on
the hands of the priests who have
raped your sons and daughters,

and i am sitting here thinking
about all of the unpaid bills
on the kitchen counter and about
how the walls of this house
hold no heat



i am waiting
for one war to begin or for
another to begin



for the first soldiers
to be flown home in bags



the words
spoken over their graves,
which none of us will
remember