Bombs in Springtime ~ Anna Lowe Weber



We were lost in the yellow of spring

            when the bombs went off.  All over

our backyard, irises were erupting


from the ground, laying claim onto

            whatever sliver of life their only week

on earth could offer before the season


moved on.  When the bombs went off,

            we moved boxes from one house to another.

We spent the week sorting, packing, taping,


lifting.  We were moving.  We were trading

            one life for another when the bombs went

off.   New house, new neighborhood. 


We were fielding invitations to attend

            the local Baptist church.  We were trying

to change the subject.  We were watching tv


reports.  Shaking our heads.  We tried

            to change the channel, but somehow, the news

always found us.  Our child hung around,


shuffled her feet.  When the bombs went off,

            she was outside shaking pink blossoms down

from the redbud tree.  At least we thought


it was a redbud.  At least it looked like a party.

            We were accepting pan after pan of neighborly

lasagna.  Not telling anyone that we didn’t


eat meat.  We were lying by omission.  When

            the bombs went off, we were pretending to sleep

on a mattress in the middle of our new


bedroom.  It was the yellow of spring. 

            Irises were erupting.  Anther and

filament knew nothing but to quiver


as voices rose in the streets, some game

            of stick ball breaking out between the kids

who were allowed to stay out past dark.