I will pick up the pen

And write this morning

Send my husband off to work

At the schoolhouse, knowing

He is a one

Would place his body/life

Into the fray.

Though he jokes, likes to say

He is a coward, to keep

Me from worry.

My heart in my mouth

The metallic taste of blood

Why does blood taste like bullets

When I want it to taste like wine?

Of rage, I have enough

Of peace, I have plenty

An old profit once instructed

“Love one another,” Are we capable

Of such simplicity?

Is this what it means to be saved?

Do we have the courage to stand-up

And be kind?

Or will the world end this week

Only because, we can no longer bear it?

                                                      _Joanne Hudson, December 2012

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