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KOSOVO
1999
Revenge
does not discriminate.
Six
fountain pipes conduct water
up
to six lipped cups from which spill
slewed
drools that one might urinate
from
a furred urethra. Slaughter
remembers.
My conduits kill.
I
port back to a burnt homeland
a
poisoned belly, kloofs of bile.
Brother
once but not blood brother,
you
pistolled sons of mine, with hand
popping
behind ears, and meanwhile
gangs
raped—my sister, my mother.
Some
genocides succeed. If not,
expect
the blood that once caught fire
late
evenings falling drop by drop
to
rise in the Returned, still hot
with
justified, uncivil ire,
taught
by the best when not to stop.
Alan
Marshfield
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