As terrorists drag you out of our bedroom I shout from the
warmth of quilt and covers, "I should have married you!"
And, "I was wrong about everything."

Shocked and realizing your death is imminent, you respond,
"I think your new hair cut looks swell, makes you look a lot
younger." And, "Thanks for taking me to Mexico last summer —
you're so dear."

With black stockings pulled over their faces we see only their pale,
cold, blue eyes. They speak a foreign language of neo-conservatism
and politely wait for us to finish our final words before taking you
outside to shoot you on our perfectly landscaped front lawn.

When you wake, you are glad to have me spooned beside you.
Your usual annoyance at my snoring has turned to gratitude —
affection really. You kiss me awake and tell me how grateful you
are to have a liberal boyfriend like me.

Suppressed anger is often the target of nocturnal insurgencies.