The Engines of War

My uncle hung the gasmask on a rusty nail in his shed. 

Years later I found it – a skullish nightmare, 

a goggling thing that seemed neither alive nor dead.  

World War I standard-issue, its hose 

dangling idle, the air-filter box with the granular mix

of chemicals meant to ‘naturalise’ toxic fumes

gone missing.  Had it seen action?  Had it saved a life?  

My uncle wouldn’t say.  Outmoded, 

even in my childhood, as the rubbery strap-tails 

that clung to its head, it cuddled a sour smell, 

pinched and itched and creaked 

unsettlingly.  I wondered what little use it would be 

if I lay huddled, the shriek of a falling bomb 

piercing my ears, the scald of poison skinning me alive,

or a missile bursting through concrete.  

The engines of war still advance their wizardries.  

Today, a new spell is conjured up, 

a gadget named after a sweet-smelling garden flower, 

an executive of ruin unclouded by conscience or mercy, 

designed to establish our ‘value’  

through a soft shuffle of its circuitry, and apportion 

the quality of ‘kill’ we deserve, smart bomb 

or dumb, after determining to its own 

satisfaction the guilt or risk carried by any or all of us.