Scattershot mortars:
they still land in my sleep

and the parts are always there:
the rended arm, the head like a cannonball,
lopped in half like a canteloupe,
a hot vinyl bodybag, the sack of old groceries
left to rot in the sun.

The cannibals are fiending again,
shirtless men with machetes;
we think they're at the gates,
but they're already in: they're in the well
and they're clamoring up,
fingertips rusted with blood,
wet with mosswater, moths breaking nails,
breaking wings in the climb toward the light.

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