The Killing Field

I walk the ruins
Quietly
As not to disturb the dust
Of souls.

From every rock
Broken pillar
The cry rises.

I have no answer.

It may be best
To walk far around
This killing field.
But all earth is a
Killing field
All earth
A cemetery.

It is only as I approach
The end I realize
I am clutching my stomach
As though to contain
My bowels
To forbid the bayonet
The knife
The sword.

Tears do not come.
Tears are not enough.
Tears cannot transform.
Tears lament.
Tears mourn.

These deserve better
Than tears.

This killing field must become
A firm foundation.
Mix these bones with concrete.
Knit them in rebar.
Drive steel pinions through
The orbits of the eyes
In hope we see better
Than they
Hope deeper
Than they knew to hope.

Upon this tortured land
Let us rise up
Better things.
Let the blood spilled here
Be the oil
Of better machines
Of lasting societies.

The killing field is a terrible repose.
But it may become
A worthy nativity.