Such Is The Art
Of Warfare
Lisa stice
Sometimes her mother would worry
about her, that she would be lonesome
all by herself, with a dog for a brother
in this out of the way place
where we are only acquainted
with neighbors, and only some.
This is the art of studying circumstances.
She pitched up camp
between sofa and coffee table
under pillows and cushions
she said, I like it better here.
She liked to smell the flowers
hand-picked from air
hold their invisible petals
against her face, breathe
the scent of once upon a time.
This is the art of studying moods.
And so her mother knew
she was not lonesome:
she was like a mountain
like a fire, like a thunderbolt.
Her mother whispered,
let your plans be impenetrable.
This is the art of self-preservation.
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