Tracks

The railroad tracks for us to bury the dead, for us to look
at the corpses all stacked high like a house of cards,
one touch of the finger and you’re pushing humanity
off the brink.
This is our history.
And the poets looking on at it through stained glass
windows will write how flowers will grow from the graves
but those of us really here aren’t thinking about flowers,
we’re thinking of skin and how long it takes to start smelling.
This stench will someday fill the world.
The side that wins the war
writes the history books, tells the story,
and the side that loses gets tossed down here.
These railroad tracks, after the train has gone by
storming through the air, whistling and screaming,
and we’re left in the dust of it,
to remove shoes from swollen feet,
and watches from limp wrists.

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