Scarlet Ballet

He didn't know why
today was different.
Seeking perhaps to distance himself
from this new,
slow-motion silence
of piling, armed carnage,
he decided the hundreds
of sprouting wet holes
in so many bodies
were simply a form of deflation,
which politely collapsed them
on others' sprawled limbs
as dead leaves float
eerily to earth,
discreetly clothe
their own roots.
He didn't know why
it was different
today.
His trained body
absorbed the blows
of jackhammer recoils as
a flashing, fire-river,
steel-jacket eruptions
endlessly poured from his weapon
and for a suspended
sacred moment
he saw it,
without stopping
his other eyelids
opened and
he saw it;
these unfortunate dancers
sacrificially indulged
in smoky ballet.
All, born for this moment,
he directed their bodies to pirouette,
spin twisted contortions,
and spill their organs
and teeth
on the stage,
staining each other
only to expire as wilting mannequins,
flopping, red,
open-eyed fish.
Then, without applause,
he stood alone
in that choking, cloudy,
gunsmoke heaven,
unsure who had
stolen paradise;
and he discovered
some ghosts
cannot be buried,
they must be
disassembled.
He did not know
why today
war
had become
so different.


Copyright 2007 Gary Brown