Sergeants lined them up.
A cue that led to
a promise,
and we all know
what promises are worth.
Nothing
can be said of them.
They aren’t worth
description.
The sun, bitten by clouds,
refused to paint their features.
It was a strain
Just to peer down
into the courtyard
and comb their faces,
proofread emotion
capitalize Anger
edit conviction.
I could vaguely see
their lips moving,
offering up words
to a god somewhere
above them
possibly
across the hall
in room 902
The gun barrels
didn’t hate them
nor the soldiers
whose hands
prayed to different deities
right fingers outstretched
left palms turned to heaven
bracing recoil springs.
I never heard the crack
of gunfire, just saw the smoke
jump out
as the they crumbled
before the wall.
I hope their shoes
were laced with cyanide,
that the fluid in their veins
was explosive,
that somehow their breath
was poisonous,
and by stopping them
we are all safer,
you, me, the film crew
and god in room 902
editing our dailies
across the hall.
|
Submission Name: I'll Cut My Teeth on Lead
