1971

I have learned this winter that, yes,

I am afraid to die,

even if I do it gently, controlling the rage

myself.

I think of our first week here,

when we bought the rifle to use

against the men

who prowled the street

glowering at this house.

Then it seemed so logical

to shoot to kill. The heart, untroubled;

the head, quite clear of thought.

I dreamed those creatures falling stunned and bloody

across our gleaming floor,

and woke up smiling

at how natural it is to

defend one’s life.

(And I will always defend my own, of course.)

But now, I think, although it is natural,

it must continue to be hard;

or “the enemy” becomes the abstraction

he is to those TV faces

we see leering over bodies

they have killed in war. The head on the stick,

the severed ears and genitals

do not conjure up

for mere killers

higher mathematics, the sound of jazz or a baby’s fist;

the leer abides.

It is those faces, we know,

that should have died.