waiting again, somehow. i wonder what allies
you’ve found in my body, what confederates
you have in my mind that turn me back toward you.
i was your main conspirator at one time, but by now
you’ve recruited other, deeper parts of me
to your cause. it’s a subtle approach, and safe:
words that, spoken aloud, would sound like
treason take on the aura of wisdom whispered
to practical men.

this waiting, is it a ceasefire, a cure, a treaty? no,
only a reprieve, a terrible quiet that wears on my nerves
more than the constant shelling did. i cannot help
but feel you’ve given me the chance to bury my dead
mass my last troops and gather my final strength
so that your victory may be absolute. but mine is
a guerilla war; my soldiers cannot be drawn so easily
into the open by your gentleness, not even if
i commanded them to. they are fighting for their country:
strategy can only drive them so far before their instinct
to fight until the soil is dead and every last animal slaughtered
asserts itself.

kill them all, i advise you: kill every last one of them
or else retreat and leave them their worthless land
their miserable independence.

Lindsay Lennox is a writer living in Boulder, Colorado. She writes fiction, non-fiction and poetry on good days, and punk rock song lyrics on bad ones. She’s working on a novel about identity, heroes and rock & roll. Her work has appeared in Flashquake, Thought Catalog, thickjam, the Monarch Review, Underground Voices and elsewhere.

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