On the first day they fell from the air.
On the second day strange machines crossed our
at night, and we told ourselves new dreams in the
On the third day the shitfaced reporters embedded
themselves in the slick haunches of the new gods.
On the fourth day it was all so different
we could not remember how much it was the same.
On the fifth day a great warship carved the night sea,
and its captain awoke from a nightmare of Katyń.
At the end of the first week, at the end of that easy
beginning of war, our children greeted the maw
of yet another failure of courage by their parents.
The next morning the politicians
arose from the smarm of their group hug,
unshackled the blindfolded woman,
her accomplice who would not shut up,
and their children, and dragged them behind
the galvanized ripples of the quonset
Unable to face themselves,
our representatives pretended
to be somewhere else
to be someone else’s
rapists and murderers-
and they rapidly inured
themselves to the satisfaction
of their new memories.
Is no one left
to bring us the news?
to the September 2007 Issue
The Sarmatian Review
Last updated 9/27/07