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The Weight of It

Put a single bullet in the palm of your hand, it lays there, obedient, glistening, motionless, weighing no more than a thought.

Sew all grenades into the sleeves of white dress shirts making sure to leave the pins fully engaged and they shall never again need ironing.

Gently lower all IEDs to the furthest depths of the sea among the amazing and peculiar mysteries of the deep and strange creatures shall dance to their silence.

Place all the military tanks on the planet into large pots, stoke all the furnaces and melt them down into a liquid and from them erect millions of rolling libraries.

Hang all rifles and handguns from the surface of the moon like an airplane mobile or a holiday tree ornament, and listen to the wind make a joyful noise.

Sculpt all manner of bombs into enormous statues, whose eyes look down and whose brows are furrowed, and merrily stare back into their dreary faces.

Place a world of peace in the palm of your hand, feel it gently breathing, exhaling through your fingers, weighing no more than imagination.


© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

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