by Alicia Ostriker

The killing will not stop. A scarlet
hail is always behind our eyes.
The morning paper, shreds of flesh,
poisons the bread, the salt, the cheese.

Husband, I want to fight the good
battle of hip, and breast, and thigh,
where pleasure, spoil of sinew, breeds
outrageous generosity.

I want to see our children spring
free as this coarse grass. I suppose
the killing will not stop. The killing
will not stop. Who knows. Who knows.