A poem by Guadalupe J. Mier

The cries of war
fell the bodies of the
young –
Cry “timber!”
in the north woods,
as requiems on Pacific
winds bring the taste of
death
to America.

Somewhere near the crowd of mourners,
hidden by the volley of the guns,
taps are played for peace
and for the young
that never lived it.

This work was featured in issue #15b