We are America. 
We are the coffin fillers. 
We are the grocers of death. 
We pack them in crates like cauliflowers. 

The bomb opens like a shoebox. 
And the child? 
The child is certainly not yawning. 
And the woman? 
The woman is bathing her heart. 
It has been torn out of her
and as a last act 
she is rinsing it off in the river. 
This is the death market. 

America, 
where are your credentials?

Poet: Anne Sexton
Poem: The Firebombers
Poem of the Day: May 16 2010

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