Poem Before a War

On the cusp of a war,
it makes perfect sense
to write of the warm weight
of your body cradling mine, the way
you grip me where thigh meets torso
pulling me into your thrusts,
your fingers pressed deep in my pale flesh,
how you pin me to the bed
your damp chest on my breasts,
the feeding frenzy of our mouths
tasting each other’s blood-flushed bodies.
Limb on limb, arms akimbo,
gristle on bone and shit-stained gore,
the curve of a head in the crook of some arm,
the pulsing feast of maggots
on the blackened bodies of Verdun, at Auschwitz,
and the mass graves of Sarajevo-

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