I’m lying in the fetal position
at the bottom of a muddy trench dug during World War One
or
I’m queuing outside a gas chamber
skin exposed to Winter air by burlap
during World War Two
In one of these fantasies- - and that’s what they are- -
a man looks over his shoulder and asks
whether I deserve
to be alive.
“I don’t think so,” I mutter.
Then another man stands over my emaciated frame
and quanders “Have you had time
to
zink about your
life?”
I raise a muddy foot
or
adjust my weight to face
my conversation partner:
“What do you want me to say?”
I want you to say everything
(pointing to a field of shell-craters)
before you go out there
or
I want you to have a chance
(pointing to my head)
before you go in there.
Then, the vapor comes
or
it starts raining.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
I’m lying in the fetal position
at the bottom of a muddy trench dug during World War One
or
I’m queuing outside a gas chamber
skin exposed to Winter air by burlap
during World War Two
In one of these fantasies- - and that’s what they are- -
a man looks over his shoulder and asks
whether I deserve
to be alive.
“I don’t think so,” I mutter.
Then another man stands over my emaciated frame
and quanders “Have you had time
to
zink about your
life?”
I raise a muddy foot
or
adjust my weight to face
my conversation partner:
“What do you want me to say?”
I want you to say everything
(pointing to a field of shell-craters)
before you go out there
or
I want you to have a chance
(pointing to my head)
before you go in there.
Then, the vapor comes
or
it starts raining.
MMXII
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