Dumb

I know how ill-fit the cross is to war

and that I have a thing or two to say

about the two pregnant women we shot

or the village of children we burned

or the jihadist we dragged naked through the mud.

but I am in my home

and gospel fumbles out of my mouth

and onto the floor,

I am inarticulate about these things.

As if complexity ties a string around my tongue

and just as I shape the sound

of a "d," or a "b," or a "t,"

it pulls me into a vowel

and I end up yawning something incoherent but audible-

it might as well be a blessing for all of its courage.

My God,

not a blessing.

Never a blessing.