Her War

She has suffered the ravages of
biochemical warfare,
the blitzkrieg of
fibromyalgia
which levels whole cities of
aspirations.
She has given herself
parades
to rally up morale
only to suffer internal
sabotage,
assassinations that are as
routine
as the drumbeat
of the marching bands.
It is a form of
hormonal genocide
leaving nothing but
desolation
throughout the No Man’s Land
of her body.
Whenever a hope raises its head
from among the trenches
a machine-gun nest
riddles its helmet with a quick succession of
doubts, of
despair,
leaving its tangled corpse strung up like
Christ
among the barbed wire.
No war plan helps.
The tactics of
Zoloft and ice packs
protract the war effort
without a decisive
victory,
and meanwhile I am only ever a
war correspondent,
relaying the message home
that War is Hell.

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