He’s ripping up a war. The strips
of the New York Times slide between his fingers
into the bowl of flour and glue chowder, then splotch
around the balloon where he massages
tanks, missiles, hollow-eyed helmeted men, and
blasted apartments over the swollen skull
of a future pumpkin mask. But pauses
before tearing the page of young recruits,
super-hero gear and invincible stances, just like
his comics. He’s five years old.
Glue soup spatters his hair, his pants.
He’ll make something whole of all this havoc,
the scariest pumpkin we’ll ever see.
No bombs fall here. We’re free
to shred whole countries on the kitchen floor.
And while we’re at it, why not
family feuds, our own mildewed archive
of injury and revenge: what masks
we’ll compose from these tatters, this goop,
and when they’ve dried and we’ve cut holes
for eyes and painted the crackled frame,
with what new lines of sight we’ll squint
at that compulsive brother, Cain,
who acts it out, again, again.
—Rosanna Warren
Rosanna Warren’s most recent books are So Forth, a collection of poems, and Max Jacobs: A Life in Art and Letters.
