It’s raining death in the night
As raindrops spray
Machine gun fire on my umbrella
While puddles count the zeros
Of their bodies,
Ever expanding circles,
Too numerous to number in a lifetime
Like the fallen 6,000,000,
An estimate
Of the rain.

The lightning illuminates the murder:
The dead water,
Already fallen, soaks the ground
Full and regurgitating like saliva
In a dead man’s mouth.
The anger in my stomach thunders–
Sick with revulsion.
A guard says,
“Get in the shower.
Give me
All your clothes.”

Herded into the room, we scream
Because the spigots don’t spew water
But gas.

Posted in Perspective, Poetry