i.

the boys run 

under ringing shells, raining

bombs fracturing their porcelain eyes,

families’ carcasses painting the streets. a boy is lying asleep,

mouth open like a young peony, tongue bright red but 

lost in his sea of redness. the gray clouds above carry 

the sun away, cries trampled on 

like our protests, voices reaching 

the world of perpetual silence. all they see is the bayonet’s blade

carving the poppies on the floor.

ii.

families are stained with 

military waste. the pattering rain 

washes the red painting white again, 

and stories are lost in Winter. only the vestiges of shrapnel 

and ordnance remain; they carry the earth, 

one shake and it turns

into a thousand fragments, bits of bones

and sheets of flesh covered by rubble.

but they stay and they wait

to be smudged against a sheet-metal roof

until the residue from their fleshy cheeks imprint 

the walls. the boys sing melodies of a new 

world but the rain frowns and washes 

their bodies and crackle 

their tarnished and soiled skin.