Megan Schimdt
Megan Schimdt

I love
the bitter taste
of victory,
rising in the back of my throat,
like the gaseous exhaust
of a poison-glazed pit,
brimming flatly
in the sweaty haze
of morning.

I love
the twisted
darkness
of savage ruin,
burning bright,
into a heaped mass
of blackened bones
and dented
cooking pots
dusted over with thick crimson
residue,
melting away
in a phlegmatic storm.

 I love
this empty room,
this vacant
house,
the flag,
flapping,
out front against the bright, wide
sky —
alone in shifting glory,
while its brother
drapes a sealed coffin,
secure on a plane
heading home.

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