diplomacy the size of a fist

after all the fucking.
after the happy promises are
flushed
and sent down the hell
of plumbing pipes,
just before the bed was made
for the final time,

you sit at the table
with her,
and this table already holds
too much tension
to begin with.

you want peace.

you want peace,
and sometimes
you want a piece of their throats.

but once you lock eyes,
the sentiment is reciprocated
in the form of a basket
made of sharp points.

from you,
from her,
every negotiating tactic
is a grenade that lands
on your
or her lap.

and you just have to accept
the fact
of explosions.

you're a vet though,
you've been through these before,
enough to at least know
the parameters
of a civil discussion.

but still,
too much blood
has been measured
in somebody's corner.

and this is the first time
she refuses to shake
your hand.