I'm afraid of you
lodged inside,
some sort of secret weapon
that will mow me down, bowl me over,
render me unrecognizable.
I can't feel you--
you do your work
hidden, secret agent,
a mole without loyalty
except to yourself.
But I can feel what
you've taken:
my blood, my guts
I can feel what
you want:
my heart, my mind.
For the occupied country
such a desire is just
another offensive.

I'm the civilian,
the guerrilla,
the Vietcong
in the southern countryside.
I'm a battleground,
part of me traitor,
a country dividing against itself.
You're the marine,
the green beret,
the jungle troops
who sit and plot
in hostile territory.

"Resistance is useless,
resignation eventual--
reparations will be made."

My own Agent Orange,
I may be poisoned,
defeated,
brought to bear
the awful burden
of Motherhood as it bleeds from those around me--
but a defoliate,
even as it lays bare,
strips cover,
opens the way
for a successful campaign,
also rebounds
dangerous and invisible
upon the carrier.

What kind of battle is this
when the invading force would destroy itself,
when the armies move from side to side--
mortal combat of another kind.
Motherhood
surrounds me,
invades me,
betrays me,
how shall I resist?


#1, The Nuclear Family
#3, Principles of Geology
#4, Nightpicture