It was like a cemetery sat up
in the middle of the night
and vomited all over the city.
From the billowing windows
and ashen balconies
of completely unshelled buildings,
they hung like guest towels,
while others were folded like napkins
in very uncomfortable positions,
and if they were to survive
what was about to happen,
would certainly need to see a chiropractor afterwards.
Arms just don’t bend that way.
The one who started it all
was garnished with a latex gash—
a colonel’s medal inspired its topography.
He was slumped next to
a tattling grandfather clock,
with its brassy heart allowed
to sway under glass.
It reflected an ungutted soldier,
who approached the fallen, as if hypnotized.
He didn’t notice the clean knife
or the fist of cartilage grasping it.
Death’s buffet distracted from the intact
waiting at the table.
And, with fingers shaped into a peace sign,
the first casualty tried to close eyes
too dead to budge,
as the starving ground
threw the covers
from its rumbling belly.
