Irene Cunningham

The Charge of the Light Brigade

War, is the bus I missed – a little more
than late…and I hope to miss the next one
though, I can see myself, knitting, front row
watching men die, worrying if fear would
get tangled in my wool. I meditate,
fish for the courage of my convictions
in oceans where people are just flotsam.

Space will be our final frontier – of course
my spaceship would leap light years; in thirty
minutes I’d be across the universe
using the free energy of space, souped
up scenarios from Asimov to
Stargate Atlantis and Vanilla Sky.
I might knit balaclavas in Mithril

…as an ancient I’d accommodate death.
There’s nothing as dangerous as life, and
even as a ghost I’d still belong, want
more time in the ranks to rant against them,
the old generals, the marketeers who
don’t know how to plain or purl, wear burdens
like honesty – they’re galaxies apart.


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