While it isn’t ever something we would wish for, we would all nonetheless always prefer it to be the person beside us who dies, whether on a mission or in battle… or under bombardment or in the trenches… in a mugging… in an earthquake, an explosion, a terrorist attack, in a fire… even if it’s our colleague, brother, father or even our child… Or even the person we most love, yes, even them, anyone but us.
YES, what was left of the fat chance corporeal slug was rolled flat
Rolled out on kenophobic parade
Spooks’ ghost dance, collegial mischance
Bomb da bards, we say, wrong side d’grass
Listen to your Angel Number, hon… Run!
Nothing, even you, deserves to live
(That crystal clear?)
You were the Crash’ed money shot
stuck forever marker 17
Mater•I•al ass’pect
eyes roll smack under ground
Fun fact: Javier Marías same birth year Claudio Ranieri
kick off first half, second’s for stenchy trench
71% water-mark, death by a shotgun Covid
Where it’s at, dis’honest angel
mugging for a late fire selfie ¹
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(opening lines; trans, Margaret Jull Costa)
¹ First line: see Ledig header; other italics: Ballard, Kadare; shotgun, covid: see previous poem’s note