For the Faint of Heart

To welcome the last

day of the seventh month,

when blood turns cold in the South

but thins in summertide up North.

 

The maize stands tall

in uniform formation, as if

to shelter the soldiers

from the rising sun.

 

The land is toiled on the

innocent water of

child; boiling, freezing,

starving, dying.

 

The cries with each motion

mirror the chill

of saw-toothed metal

felt down to the bone.

 

Is this what they call

humoral immunity?

 

I cannot dream with

blood on my hand

and weight on my

conscience.

 

Can you sleep

at night?