Armistice
A grey cigarette haze lingered
above the bed like gun smoke
over a battlefield and we,
the casualties of war,
lay beneath. When we kissed
and she said she could see
Manzanar in my eyes.
At times love is a negotiation
between desire and history.
The clock on the bedside table
flashed in dim red numbers
as the battery was nearly spent.
After the passion runs low
there are not many choices;
a long march in the Philippine sun,
a desert cage of spiral concertina wire
or a one last bloody conflict that ends
with the squeeze of a trigger.
with the squeeze of a trigger.
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