Fiat justitia ruat caelum.
(Let justice be done though the heavens fall.)
The bodies are no longer there. They’ve dug them up
and carried them off, exhumed from shallow graves.
They’ve laid them out and counted, set torsos and limbs
aright, sewed shut the seams. The sea cannot be their grave.
Who made the pile of fresh dirt at the woods’ edge?
They gored and slit the very air. Oh most depraved.
Not even the womb was sacred. Not kin, not friend, not
bystander. Not hair, not skin struck by gun barrel or stave.
What are they worth, who are no longer here? Warped leaves
in the canopy condemn the unresolved: they won’t forgive.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.