Our Own Blood
The generals deliberate on the climate of war,
insulted that some harebrained foreigners
might beat them at seizing the capital.
The generals read barometers of insiders,
tally missiles and unmanned drones.
Their temperatures escalate as the budget deficit
dives and the foreigners move forward.
The Supreme Commanders would like nothing better
than to turn the tide, reduce the expense of casualties
to zero, risk only what’s necessary,
leave nothing to accident.
Fingers like rolls of million-dollar bills
toying with the buttons of boom,
the generals reckon lives,
plot exact targets via satellite surveillance.
The security of our native land hovers
like Apache helicopters
on a do-or-die sortie.
The generals know it has always been
us or the enemy, the battle between
alien blood and our own.
by Bruce Lader
from The New York Quarterly