between wars

between wars, grass grows through walls
and those who are good with words have their day in the sun.
between wars, children grow taller, well-fed
on repressed memories and a surplus of protein.

between wars, there are sudden gaps of chill
in the middle of daily routines, like signals from a phantom limb
telling of a universe where this couldn't happen again,
where sorrow stayed contained at the brim
and never spilled over into everything.

between wars, anything can be a symbol in a certain light -
a red splatter of poppies, a standard milk bottle, a locked briefcase can
cast long shadows over all that was built between wars,
make it look precious and fragile.

for every song there is a prayer, for every blooming a recoil
but only those golden fools who haven't seen a war dare claim
that even the between wars is a war,
that the rift between those who know war and those who don't
spells out the end of the world.