The Firebombers


We are America.
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.

The bomb opens like a shoebox.
And the child?
The child is certainly not yawning.
And the woman?
The woman is bathing her heart.
It has been torn out of her
And as a last act
She is rinsing it off in the river.
This is the death market.

America,
Where are your credentials?


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The Firebombers