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.