Short Stalingrad Poems

the soldier.  the pretty city girl.

in a room of rust and patterned blood
cover
ash all in the riven air
ash of city, ash of sacrifice, ash of
soul

"I came here a soldier.  You have made a monster of me."

he told her, in a voice as
 cancerously black and lost as
  any stygian
       pit

frightened and quiet
she spread supine, naked, shaped, shaded
like gold

mortar shells screaming all around

digging holes...

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