I want to write love poems from the autopsy reports
of the in-bound Dover dead, to use cold hard aluminum words
and scar into the stupored minds of the living
the vomitus stink and sludge of war-broken bodies.
I want to write love poems to the godly, kind, loving neighbors—
who shook the now-dead’s hands, telling him, telling her
of their hometown pride, thanking each for their iron belief
in fighting for freedom when freedom was never at risk.
I want to scratch love poems on the rag-draped caskets
to each sobbing mom and dad; to each bored, mediocre teacher;
to each blind pastor and priest, imam and parishioner
of church, temple, synagogue and mosque
who will attend the fat rituals of bleak, industrialized war-death.
I want to write love poems tattooing our brazen deceit
on these aluminum boxes of the commercialized dead:
lives snuffed out by our diapered refusals to say no.