War the War Poem by Jack Underwood

War the war, the sorry edge
of us, because we stacked nice

clean plates for days, we were
sure things when love broke

across the headland, leaving
conch shells in ditches,

five fish slapping on the steps
of the old town hall, it was winter,

we were bonfires unattended,
our bodies litigating, agreeing

and writing it all down, the law
of legs, the law of how we sleep,

the law of shoulders killing me,
and now we fold clothes without

thinking my clothes your clothes
and war the war o happy war

what love we are so badly bitten
in this long-term necessary chapel

with all attendant relics, citronella
candle, junior hacksaw,

a box of miscellaneous wires,
our headland way-way underwater,

no one else beside us
but ourselves beside ourselves.