But it may well be the most sorrowful, deepest, the most grave song we will ever sing.

by Gerardo Mena
—For Corporal Kyle Powell, died in my arms, 04 November 2006
They said you are a spear. So I was a spear.
I walked around Iraq upright and tall, but the wind blew and I began to lean. I leaned into a man, who leaned into a child, who leaned into a city. I walked back to them and neatly presented a city of bodies packaged in rows. They said no. You are a bad spear.
They said you are a flag. So I was a flag.
I climbed to the highest building, in the city that had no bodies, and I smiled and waved as hard as I could. I waved too hard and I caught fire and I burned down the city, but it had no bodies. They said no. You are a bad flag.
They said you are a bandage. So I was a bandage.
I jumped on Kyle's chest and wrapped my lace arms together around his torso and pressed my head to his ribcage and listened to his heartbeat. Then I was full, so I let go and wrung myself out.
And I jumped on Kyle's chest and wrapped my lace arms together around his torso and pressed my head to his ribcage and listened to his heartbeat. Then I was full, so I let go and wrung myself out.
And I jumped on Kyle's chest and wrapped my lace arms together around his torso and pressed my head to his ribcage but there was no heartbeat. They said no. You are a bad bandage.
They said you are a coffin. So I was.
I found a man. They said he died bravely, or he will. I encompassed him in my finished wood, and I shut my lid around us. As they lowered us into the ground he made no sound because he had no eyes and could not cry. As I buried us in dirt we held our breaths together and they said, yes. You are a good coffin.
(h/t to the Rude One for this beautiful, grievous poem)
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