She points at the television as if she could translate
Rocky, make sense of Rambo. She is camphor blouse,
Grandmother, keeper of jars for flamed cuppings.
She knows where men have been, those falling into
Tarnished landscapes, sinew machine built from
Fire as if coal were burning their insides. Rocky’s arms
Draw skin-drip of diamonds in the meat locker. Rambo
Is carnage cloaked in her homeland mud. She knows
Them as one, their howling stare before they yield,
The way their eyes turn lunar, rogue as dead stars
Thrown back to the graveyard in heaven. In the
Afterwar, there are no more terraces, no more hills,
No hand to sweep the hearth, but always, there remains
A man omitted, and that she knows as well.