By Katrina Roberts

At one friend’s home whole arsenals of guns
litter the lawn—bright plastic shapes my sons

pick their ways between to take proffered
popsicles. Later, on evening news, words

like “ambush,” “strike,” and “friendly fire”
punctuate glowing clips of wreckage in far

fields where other mother’s children kneel to
aim and pray. And though it’s clichéd, truth

be told, I wish one could keep her boys
from growing old and going off to die. Toys

need not rush us there. Instinct? No harm?
An urge to hoist whatever’s there, hard-

wired within? Perhaps ignoble, I’m still glad
when one spits on his own: They’re bad.

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