Diction
Maximilian Heinegg
The myths say Ares made his bed
of skins, calling it a war blanket-
a coward, who when wounded, fled
the field for his father’s salve.
Our gods no longer
resemble us - the father, son & holy
ghost of forgiveness, what spirit remains
when we drive the American war
chariot ourselves through the Kunduz Trauma Center,
firing from a guarded distance, smart bombs by satellite.
In Kunduz, Ares finds his bed easily,
ten patients shadow the gray zone,
twelve Doctors Without Borders surgically
struck, the word choice disgusts.
Above the battle, the enemy non-combatants’
losses count the drones until they sleep, human
shields the damage batters. Savage to say collateral.
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