Anti-Christ

Spencer Galione

We’re equals but I’m just a feather.

We hold hands, lined in rows of two,

skipping to the beat of the bombs

We put the gobsmacked on a pedestal,

with care so small you can’t see it through a microscope.

It’s a shootout but we’re holding automatics and grenades,

and shouting at the skies,

more brittle than the bones of a man hours away from tasting dirt.

We walk through a mountain of knives while salt rains on us,

on this planet we call Mars.

Our ankles wear anchors,

we solicit the weak, trample the dead.

It pries my throat out,

wary of the warships.

The drills perforate my skull,

and I outline my veins with a scalpel.
The only miracle is death.