ROADSIDE BOMB AS SEEN THROUGH A PVS-7

A lotus spreads upon the first flash of sunlight, sprouting to horrific bloom by a single seed from Hades in the crude, lime hue, where apparitions assume the shape of fleeing howls. The deafening concussion is followed by the intrusive silence. The carbon residue of grief.

THE WAR POEM YOU ASKED FOR

has unsightly blood stains

on its ravenous chops.

The sound of sunbaked ligaments

severing is the hound’s teeth

tearing meat off the femur.

Some say this is the way of communion,

feasting on the body,

but I can’t offer a catharsis to this poem,

not even when the canine’s teeth

submerge into young flesh,

and the mutt executes that savage little

shake as it pulls off the right mouthful.

The poem won’t stop.

This is after the poem

is let free in the woods

and starts mutilating rodents.

If this poem continues to feed,

the reader won’t have to see

the quickness of the tongue

lapping cherry fluid

from the vacant eye socket.

No narrator will tell

if the littered alley

or the rusty dirt

soaked in a red paste

witnessed this feast,

or if this poem

has the mercy to end.