Talking to my mother about the prospect of war
makes me want to go to war. Talking to my mother
about the space shuttle makes me want the astronauts
to have been painful, sustained, makes me want pieces
of their charred bodies to have rained down on Texas
in recognizable bits, more than ash, more than the airy
transmogrification their end surely was.
That, from a poem appearing on a site called Poets Against the War, The author is a Williams College lecturer. You will not be suprised to learn that said lecturer/poet has written for the Paris Review.