The sword ends half way down the hilt
the pointed end of the plow sticks out
solder joins the two – more sword
and plowshare joined at the hip
than one turned into the other
and somehow this image stays intact,
more real, than the melding other
of biblical proportions . . .
and so it is that the hands squeezing
around my neck do not so much
melt as meld into love and peace
peace - a concept bound and defined
by its opposite – no violence, we’ve
no need, no desiring, for this thing
we call peace . . .
What do I do with that?
I remember the violence
and I remember that I survived it.
And that, at least, for now, is good.