The eyes of the guard <br />who motioned her forward <br />told her he’d done this <br />many times before <br /> <br />behind his peremptory bayonet <br />his eyes were dead like <br />an anaesthetic before <br />the operation from which <br />she’d not recover <br /> <br />after that, it was merely <br />a bad dream <br />the stripping, <br />the clang of the doors, <br />the singing. the singing <br /> <br />for death had spoken her already <br />a small mercy <br />in a day without mercy<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-last-day-4/
