I’ve driven past so many times
but only walking do I spot the big
green gun at the entrance
to the suburban park.
Sleek-designed death machine.
Wyndmoor sent a lot of men
to various wars, my husband tells me.
OK but why should we remember
our dead children with the clanking
machinery of war, over and over,
in cities and small towns
and suburbs like this one, these
corroding helicopters, tanks, cannon,
guns rusting in Memorial Parks
and Veterans Parks, at rotaries
and intersections, outside VFW Halls.
How does a mother whose child
was killed for oil or for a killing idea
or for vainglory of the old
visit this park and seek peace?
Where are the symbols of peace?
The cranes, the doves, why not
woodpeckers of peace, squirrels
of peace, sewage-treatment plants
of peace, white-tailed deer of peace?
Rats, mice, stink bugs of peace,
migrating finches, baseball diamonds
of peace, rec centers, hoops, black-capped
chickadees of peace, curb cuts, feral cats
of peace, commuter trains, transfer stations,
walnut trees, utility poles, holly trees
of peace, children, children,
children, ancestors.
How do we do it, pledge peace.