Wars

My toy soldiers are stiff and plastic,
but yours can run and jump. How impressive.

You call them Jack and they holler back, though,
and they sometimes wince, while mine shine

unwavered, same as the day they came, their bows
and ribbons strewn about the room, like shrapnel.

When my men break, I can paste them
or replace them, but yours are a special kind –

they take nine months to make.

When they’re done, you waste them
as though it only took a day, and you trade them

as though their flesh were legal tender
and your face had been stamped upon them, boastful.

You measure power in piss, and how you wreak
from the stench of it, that steady flow of ambrosia

pouring through your fists: your God-like hands
performing miracles, making water as you whine.

There’s not a man alive who hasn’t felt divine
a time or two. We all have our good days.

But as sure as my eye blinks, you’re naked
and you’ll serve mushrooms that sear the skies, white 

 and hot on my dinner plate; cruel and abrupt, the annihilation.

 It’s only a matter of time before I lie
in piles, grey and pyroclastic, being scattered.

I hear you’ll take it upon yourself to let me die
unlike your demons: foreign to you, like language.

Now, the dawn breaks over hills and brick churches.
Our planes have chimneys, spilling smoke and blood that stains.

---

Adam Coday

Adam Coday is a confessional poet writing from the Pacific Northwest. His work has been previously published by Heavy Feather Review, From Whispers to Roars, and on Instagram by Chunk Lit.