The Firebombers Poem by Anne Sexton
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?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/23/2024 12:43:45 PM # 1.0.0.1119
