We can’t concentrate.
We drop out of school.
We forget how screwed-
in-the-head war
has left our grandfathers,
their hands and glass
eyes demanding more
of us than we can give.
We stop listening.
We consider enlisting.
We want to stare the world
down, crush its fingers,
see what it’s made of.
We want young girls
with plywood violins
to kiss us as they flee
from refugee camps.
We want our papers stamped.
We need ink.
This town is closing
in on us.
Glen Armstrong edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has two new chapbooks: Simpler Times and Staring Down Miracles. He spends part of his year teaching writing in a Michigan prison.