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?

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