no love lost
nor found in the fields of war,
these are the body baggers,
the silent ones who gather
broken soldiers when smoke clears.
oldest children do the job best,
they carry weight from birth,
guilt a familiar companion,
all their prayers tired out.
they don’t talk while they work.
try to forget when they’re done,
a good day is when the wind blows,
the sky overcast, clouds busy.
A bad day is when a new worker
can’t hold in the horror, gagging,
invoking a deity with every breath,
there are no gods here, no gods.
They work side by side till done,
lost in whatever thoughts they bring.
At night they toss in ugly dreams
clutching old letters tight in their fists