by Mermer Blakeslee
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how do we bury the dead
stacking up on the patio against our picture window? I can
barely see
over the last body blown here by another cluster bomb—
every forty minutes, every twenty, every ten, every five every four
every three every two every one—
I can no longer see into the garden
what do we do with all these children
lying here outside our kitchen
lying here outside our kitchen