After Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et decorum est”
“Dulce et decorum est.”
I stumble, suddenly bowed under the weight.
I had barely asked, innocent of the unexpected request
slipped into the answer. Initially, it must equate
my love to a god, capricious and hungry
for sacrifice. I wailed inside for the same, for giving,
for forgiving, for trying to find the sundry
faults in myself uncorrected and languishing.
No! No! Quick mind, to arms!—An ecstasy of fear
as I drudged up feelings of protection and melancholy.
But my heart still cried out for healing, to bear
the brunt of our onslaughts irrationally.
I knew myself incapable of stopping those stumbling for
a reason to lay down, of trying to stop the drowning.
In my dreams, within my helpless hands
they struggle, ululating, writhing, weeping.
If you too could watch your loves kill themselves,
picked off by equal parts anger and fear and twisted
notions of love, watch them neglect their most basic health—
their fearful faces, like every kindness was wasted.
If you could hear them wheedling, begging
coming forth from their darkened souls,
worn through to translucency, their minds egging
on all attempts to make their psyches like shattered bowls.
You indeed would not repeat this lovely fib,
to those lonely and fearful, seeking solace
with their blurring eyes: Dulce et decorum est
pro amori mori