Red crept in each spring-
crackling shells and acrid smells mounting
in lampshades and on windowsills.
The rust bugs buzzed, beating
their spotted bodies
against solid light.
We’d sweep up the dead
to disregard in the bin.
Millions dumped to rest in that
potato peel grave.
I remember thinking that
this must be why wars won’t end,
how the sheer number of casualties
must somehow numb the tragedy.
When will we grieve again?
pm poetry 