To the Idea of War
BY Maria Picone
Sun-Tzu called you an art; our policy-makers
called you necessary; to them, art often isn’t.
In the news, you’re the monster in the closet;
too much light falls on you to frighten us.
In execution, you’re a prodigal son, throwing
away money and lives on foreign soil.
In our bouquet, a bloom of blood blossomed
as we, helpless, watched you soldier on.