war cry

March 15, 2010 at 3:21 am Leave a comment

I drag myself through a field
of broken bodies cloaked
in soldiers’ uniforms, made up
with mud. I try not to look
down, but I can’t help it. I
recognize my brother by the ring
around his middle finger, reach
for his hand; his fingers curl
rigor mortis style around
my wrist; it won’t let
go. He won’t
let go!

I carry my brother with me–
handcuffed to his blue-white
arm. The doctor says the only
way is to saw away his grip.
But his fingers have eyes:
they watch me, at day, at night, they
won’t forget, he
won’t let me forget.

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Entry filed under: Poetry.

What PK Page means to me nobody likes to be murdered

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