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.