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Dies Irae

It's Wrathday, Dies Irae.
            Have mercy on us!

-- though we deserve it little:

the best warzipan is baked in our city
and we have invented a painful
suicide method for the whole world.

Couldn't we have some meat
            from one of your fat joints gone wasting?
            Oh! have mercy on us!

- No, you may not have meat
            as the worms turn seamlessly in single file;
this is Wrathday, Dies Irae.

            A simple habit taken from a child:
            smearing from gold leaf the candy of war
            on the crossed awnings of the angry buildings.

This poem appears in the 2003 Anthology
View all poems by Gwyn McVay