We are
America.
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of
death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflower.
The bomb opens
like a shoebox.
And the child?
The child is certainly not
yawning.
And the woman?
The woman is bathing her heart.
It
has been torn out of her
and because it is burnt
and as a last
act
she is rinsing it off in the river.
This is the death
market.
America,
where are your credentials?