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poem no. 45 by claude anshin thomas

45)

You

spoke to

me,

asked

to hear

more

directly

about the

war

that

lives on

in memory

as surely

as

the taste

of fried

bread

on a

cold winter

morning –

I will tell you

but

what can

you know

from

the night

sweats

that

soak

my dreams

in the smell

of too

fresh

blood -

mine,

mixed with

the young

and old

dead,

their intestines

hanging

out,

their genitals

now

in the wrong

place,

cut off

and

stuffed in

someones

mouth

instead of

hanging

just below

the navel

waiting to -

can you listen,

can you

step through

the ideas

you ever

had

of

sanity,

of social rightness

and listen

even when

you

want to

turn

away

or vomit,

because

I will tell

you -

and then

the

question

of love

will be

answered.

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