Macbeth as Domestic Terrorist Speaks of the Patriot's Day Bombing
My cousins felt their mirth
tie up their throat and gut
as newly torn flesh and broken bones,
carried by good feet out of the blast,
cried forth. Those body carriers have hearts
as strong as my hate,
which rages still
in my forebrain
as if a hot poker was pressed strong and deep
right between the eyes. Those with good
in their feet will not sleep.
I know the feeling of blood
on your hands. How it grows cold
and tacky on the skin.
In small drops and dashes
it isn't even noticeable.
Not if it rests on your arm or leg,
and you are a man.
They will sleep no more for a week or so,
the dead hang like a medal,
they bump up against your gut,
and pull on your neck,
and it seems everyone notices it, and it seems
everyone asks
how are your loved ones?
The cracker and jack with which people flew away
from the explosions
excites me, raises me up.
And immediately after detonating
I asked myself: how I can improve my letters?
As if those who cannot walk, and those
who cannot sleep
number with the dead
but satisfy none of my mind's anxious fingers.
There's always
more explosives. There's always more time.
There's always another stage.
