In the end, I am left
only with me. This voice
so quiet you mistake it
for weakness, for faltering.
We sit on the porch and hold
mosquitoes at bay with candles.
Do I disappoint when
at the end of the night, I leave
them without a thought for longing?
I’ll never know, because a pacifist
can never come to grips
with bloodlust, the metallic taste
that sticks to your lips. After
your first you’ll go for it
again and again, but like cocaine,
it’s never as good as the first time.
I’ve a penchant for peace,
a skill for creating silence, but war
has a way of infiltrating me.