Sun leaks through bullet holes in the sheet-tin ceiling,
Sprinkling light on dead mens' clothing
Piled stiff with dried blood and dust of fifteen years.
What does it mean when the stained glass windows
Left intact
Let in less light to this church
Than the small holes in its brick walls
Made by grenades
Thrown from the hands of its priests?
What does is mean when the left overs of dead believers are
Speckled the holy white color of
Bird ****
That drips
From the bullet holes above?
Nearing the aisle's end,
I feel an urge to touch
What I don't believe I see
And look more closely.
Tangled human hairs, crusted blood,
Loose threads torn from hand-stitched hems, in shreds,
And insects nesting in the decay of the dead.
I recoil and suddenly, reach...