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70 MARILYN KRYSL Warscape, With Lovers Scent of plumeria, and the smell of burning. Not one or the other, but both. Destruction, and the blossom. Sweetheart, I’m afraid. That boy with the rifle breaks the catechism in two. And in two. Let me see us whole, beside the sea. My body busy, paying attention to yours. Already we rock each other with our voices. Already we’re braiding the invisible chord. That burning hut on T.V. could be ours. My body hers, child at dead breast. That blossom of blood and bone could be your face. Let me say truth: no place, no one, is safe. Breaking of vows, we know, is a given. Sweetheart, you’ll break my heart. I’ve broken yours, but look: already you love me again. Destruction and the blossom: let me say it another way: that soldier, burning to become fabulous, torches the thatch (see blossomy flame) of the enemy’s hospital: cut to my body, clay taking shape in your hands. Body by body, war piled on war: when will the heart break all the way open? Thunder of mortar, blossom in the gutter. The soldier firing the mortar already dead. How we live: running from the burning field, into each other’s arms. Let me lie along your side. Give me something to hold. Let me ride those waves pouring from your fingers. The bodies of the disappeared toll like bells. Our koan burns: it cannot be solved. The whole and the broken, dream and nightmare: your hand in my hair, already familiar, could be the torturer’s. Vase and its blossoms camouflage for the bomb. You love where you can. Blossom: a thing of promise. That’s us. Now: let me let this go. Our glass, half full—already there’s more—swells toward the rim. Ours the bodies the death squads passed by. The refugees make a break for the fence, running for their lives, crossing this burning, broken, blossoming century. They’ve already paid our dues. Sweetheart, let me show you how. Hand on the body’s book: now swear the burning vow. ...

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