a jar of mayonnaise slipped out of my hands.
There was no prospect of a decent sandwich that day, or the next.
My orphaned children banished to the hall.
My bin, a mass grave,
glass-goop bodies thrown carelessly away.
The fall-out dripping down the cupboard doors,
my kitchen was the epicentre of a dying world.
What else can become a weapon in my hands?
the pointy end of patriotic flags?
The fingers pointed in chests
saying I won’t back down if you don’t
and then both dying of hunger
when there’s jars of mayonnaise for days?
The sound of fingernails on chalkboards
when I think that they exist freely for butter-fingers like me?
Now, I hadn’t set out to slice my soul open
but I did,
standing on the still-slick tiles,
thinking blood on my foot was close enough.
What if I worshipped the ground I walked on
more than my own feet,
the kitchen was more important than the sandwich, so to speak?
What would become a weapon in my hands?
We are belligerent.
We, who made ourselves in a God’s image but cannot love our neighbours
enough to trust them not to blow us up
because we know we’d kill them in a heartbeat.
We cannot imagine a world in which we’re neither the masters nor the slaves,
and no-one wants to be under the thumb.
That’s not strength,
being frightened of receiving the violence in your own heart.
We sleep in uneasy peace knowing that
nothing is worth fighting for
when our mutual destruction is assured.
Now, who’s against peace?
they buried their elected heads
under our leftist rubble
it’s irrelevant, they said
we have better things to do
the status quo won’t keep itself
afraid of meaningless motions when
they know their hands are empty
waiting for the blood
making disturbance for the peace
we’ll keep knocking as long as there are closed doors
we’ll say it again
bring your sledgehammers
and bring your trowels
we have some renovations to do