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Lamps and pillars made of guns-- pilot fish in time of war. Teething sharks and mantras of smug politics became nice nuns who earned the cloisters where they slept. Barracks bumpered by a plan for saving things, not dying in a brother's arms. Diaries of inner pillage in a jacket handed down from son to son as if it were nice woolen suits and not a stack of body bags containing dreams of ruined fruit. I think of ways your frail limbs resented staid--represented troubles of a universe-- hangnails hunting metal clips. Pill bugs rolled in tiny balls, reacting to the blessed danger leaders touted then contorted. Every goal you wore and bore-- pregnant promised birth of honor tucked between sharp cactus blades. Piņatas stocked with firm mistakes heroes called an action verb. Death's distillation always ruled, taping every coffin shut: firecrackers of our flags were brittle, hot, and dangerous. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact JANET I. BUCK) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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