“To seize one’s fate by the throat”
(Beethoven). But also to
feel one’s throat seized by a “fate”
one must escape, for the sake
of the children. And yet an
invading “great” power has
swollen the blood-horrific
puppet show of soldiers. These
attackers dangling from fate-
ful puppet strings bring on hate-
ful havoc; defenders stand
on honest feet—men’s courage
and hopes float invisibly
above their helmets like brave
candle flames. And one must go
on amidst earth-shoving bombs,
“holding a flagstaff, pushing
a pram” filled with infant sleep,
needing great succor and great
safety, trying to soothe way-
weary fears that leap sideways
for cover inside one’s own
frightened, skittish, synapses.

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