The perverse
pleasure
the dead
bodies
give me
stuck here
like trophies
displayed
for months
on end
is perhaps
not unlike
certain other
civilizations
exhibiting
the bodies
or heads
of enemies
on crosses
or pikes
or spikes
or pallisades
preventing
proper burial
deterring
rebellion
celebrating
victory
as I take
them down
and throw
them out
and wash
my hands
of them til
next spring
About the author:
Paul Hostovsky makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter and braille instructor. His poems and essays appear widely online and in print. He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, and has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, Only Poems, and the Writer’s Almanac
Leave a Reply