by Barbara McDonald
The horses at Troy wore bells
To drown out the horrors of battle.
Jingling sleigh bells distracted them
From the crushing of bones, the breaking of bones.
For ten years the Trojans and Achaians fought.
Chariots careened across the great plain
Led by magnificient steeds with bells on their bridles
To mask the chaos of combat,
The manisfestations of pain.
Iraq is a different kind of war.
Hummers rather than horses,
Rockets, guns, human greandes.
Gone are the spears, arrows and swords.
This war is fought over oil and greed
Not for a beauty spawned by a god.
Warriors return limbless, broken, shattered
Or in draped coffins hidden from public view.
It is the fourth year of battle. Each evening
Likenesses of dead heroes flash across the screen,
All that remain of intrepid young soldiers.
Unlike the horses we have no bells to shield us.
The horror is transparent.
So we weep for the dead, the injured, the maimed
And wonder what we have gained.
Barbara McDonald lives in Greenbrae, California. Her work has appeared in anthologies and periodicals. She is currently working on a play about a soup kitchen.
