On the Jungle of Screaming Souls,
helicopters dropped napalm bombs.
The battalion of men beneath
ran in every direction, on fire.
Scattershot blasts, and one by one
machine guns cut them down
until there were only ten.
The archaeologist’s daughter grew up in tombs. She spent her early childhood crawling through the volcanic ash, which preserved time. Her father dug tunnels in the ground, uncovered death masks, stumbled upon bones of winged beasts, while her baby hands clutched the cold earth.
Another bloody body
another child dying while
doing the unthinkable
eating food, going home,
eyes meeting impatient suspicion.