Women and their Bombs by Wendy Lee
In your poem, a woman drinks tea
and then turns herself into a bomb.
You worry at our scarred kitchen table
about that other, famous poet
who wrote about a woman
and a bomb. You dislike repetition.
Two women with bombs might be one woman too many.
I anchor two tea bags
to the handles of our mugs, thinking
about the pair of nameless women,
explosives adhered to their waists
with masking tape.
I think about the last piece of bread they ate—
plain maybe, the food of martyrdom,
or maybe slathered thick
with butter, one last small pleasure.
Walking afterward into crowded
marketplaces and bustling streets,
looking or not into the eyes of the soon
dead. Finders slipping over the detonator
like rosary beads a grandmother once rubbed
smooth with the broken sweat
And then, like magicians, each woman
turning herself into air,
arms outstretched to welcome
the sensation of breaking.
In the meantime, the hot water