Corpses, corpses

Corpses, corpses


War kills and its stench stays and stings forever.


Can I gouge out my inner eye? Block the corpses I can’t stop seeing?

Am I strong enough to force them gone—like Chris Kyle, SEAL sniper?[1]

“None of the guilty are killed” … writes White in ‘Raid’[2] … “We eat, drink,

vote and read and cannot trace the graves or name of a single murdered child.” 


Corpses, corpses—charred and dark—reaching ever to me.


[1] “In the Crosshairs.” Nicholas Schmidle. New Yorker Magazine. June 3, 2013.

[2] “Raid,” by Landeg White, 1983.


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