38,000 Citizens Died, 80,000 Wounded, by A.S. DeWitt Angel

I am not a silent poet

Numbers crumble with rows of houses,
a shred of bell tower peals
against the truant head of twenty-nine;
non-est inventus, uninhabited torsos
claim squatting rights.

Unseated monarchs
lie among their realms of roost and plot,
kitchen pots, roasted brick, parks
with smoking grass, see-saws hot to touch,
voids shriek raucous
denunciations to whom-ever, so-and-such.

Salami begs for one more chew,
hot mustard on taste buds
but her teeth are in her throat–
one-thousand and four chokes.
The severed arm of five-thousand
flexes fingers to grasp the grocers’ bag that implores
oranges and tomatoes, ‘come back, come back’.

Double digits lie, awkward,
improbable positions for kings, all,
queued for first dibs on ascension,
the Archangel’s list a half-hearted affair:
who is holy?
the temptation to say ‘God’s will’
that blithe dismissal in warfare.

Instead, perhaps, he could use even numbers,
odd ones out.


A.S. DeWitt Angel has been writing…

View original post 47 more words

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.