Chicago, 1973
In Vietnam, they call it The American War

I was seven. My room was a sanctuary
where I lay down in the pillows by the book case
under the jungle themed lampshade to
read stories. I'd finished one
about a long ago battle in a long ago time
where people had died for something.
I pitied them and left my sanctuary for the kitchen
where my parents peeled and chopped potatoes.
I told them:
I'm so glad human beings got smarter and stopped having wars.

What?

I'm really happy that wars ended so long ago,
and we don't battle each other any more.

Was it fear or self-loathing on my parents' faces
that evening? They took me to the television,
where I still watched The Electric Company and the old Zoom
whenever I could. They showed me the evening news
and its frustrated coverage of the war that had dragged
past my sanctuary all my life.

This poem appears in a slightly different form on Poets Against the War


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