EATING OUR YOUNG IN TIMES OF WAR
Pat Winslow

A circle of feathers, perfect as the torched remains of someone's farm,
a few tufts of fur, some broken bones. This is the evidence.

You can't do better than this. Make a home and keep it safe,
scuffle out the heart of a nest, sawdust and straw, the safest place,

and when the first shells come, go further in,
go further till there is nowhere else to go.

All day they have been carrying their young in their mouths,
picking them up and setting them down.

Their breasts are hard with milk.
Their eyes howl at you.

You smoke a cigarette and juggle loose change in your pocket.
You read a paper and listen to the hourly broadcasts,

go underground, then come back up when the sirens sound.
Each day you check the fences and count the dead.

It is not the tearing of limb from limb that shocks.
It is the slow methodical way they go about it.

The careful lick, the mouth at the back of the head, the snap of the neck.
They go from one to one until it is finished.

The sky is stranger. Planes leave luminous silver ribbons.
The ground bursts open like rotten fruit.

You roll up your sleeves and take what's left.
After you've buried them, you scrub your hands and nails with soap.

You wash your arms and face, throw water on your chest,
drink brandy to forget.