Not Fit
he fixated on the rifles standing like nine pins,
guns that had tumbled a village into a word salad--
‘had to be destroyed to be saved’ and all that and
the entrée was a pie made out of grimaces, limbs and liquefied hearts.
rifles
rifles rifles rifles
those miracles of the cruel,
a bullet every twentieth of a second,
a death,
a math born on the sales pitch for the first machine
gun
unpacked during World War One, ‘a war to end all wars’
and all that.
no one wanted
this morass of body and blood.
or so they claimed.
so they said.
he had felt the staccato throb
of the death orgasm in his grip
when the trigger set off
the matte black muscle from barrel to hilt, yes,
he had felt it
when families fell, transformed into a butcher’s
cabinet.
and how the curve of the trigger, its little smug smile,
chuckled over and over and then laughed
when the sergeant stomped up, labeled the deed
collateral,
and moved on.
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