ANY KILLING FIELD

  by Cappy Love Hanson


First light fingers the terrible
remnants, torsos vandalized
by time and shining flies,

picks at all that’s swollen
and split open:  the spilled coils, 
the ash, the sans-serif bones, 

no flesh left uncorrupted--
while, at the field’s bloody
boot-print border, sunflowers 

rise up, shoulder each other 
in the breeze for the first 
glimpse of dawn.