The Firebombers

We are America.

We are the coffin fillers.

We are the grocers of death.

We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.

The bomb opens like a shoebox.

And the child?

The child is certainly not yawning.

And the woman?

The woman is bathing her heart.

It has been torn out of her

and as a last act

she is rinsing it off in the river.

This is the death market.

America,

where are your credentials?