Radiator hums against
isolation of window, sound
competes for space in air. All
night war wages between
implosions of neon, violence
of magenta paints our eyes.

There is no room for
things natural. Even
movement is controlled,
premeditated. Breathing becomes
intentional, living
becomes necessary.

When I reach for you
my hands are mercenaries
to the heart of your country.
Here the war is similar
and redundant.

- Megan Pacheo