READING
"Body Bags" by Brian Turner
A murder of crows looks on in silence
from the eucalyptus trees
as we stand over the bodies—
who look as if they might roll over
to wake from a dream and question us
about the blood drying in their scalps,
the bullets lodged in the backs of their skulls,
to ask where their wives and children are
this morning, and why this hovering
of flies, the taste of flatbread and chai
gone from their mouths, as they stretch
and rise, wondering who these strangers are
who would kick their hard feet, saying
Last call, motherfucker. Last call.
