The Third of May
by Kenneth Pobo
Painting by Goya
Blood on hills already red
with poppies. When you try praying,
crows pluck up your words,
fly off. At night, mamelukes,
men with families back home,
crack guns over faces. Your arms
rise above your head. Flesh
must sink to bullet level. The shooters
don’t stop—it’s necessary
to make sure. Behind you,
a city doesn’t shake or fall. Buildings
look as they did yesterday.
So much looks the same but smells
unbearable. Soldiers have
more work to do.