by Marina McCready

somewhere a son, a lover, a gun
(all these three combined in one
an unholy trinity) falls beneath the sun.

all the world stops. the soldiers still.
a final breath and then a chill:
how terribly simple it is to kill.

embraced by silence, taken to the shade.
a man undone, a man unmade
coins on eyes- a lifetime paid.

the flies settle and bring obsolescence-
funereal humming, slow putrescence.
these eager, foolish adolescents

so keen to die. rushing in headlong-
headstrong- do they know that this swansong
may be beautiful, but before long

all the sound stops. no memory
can make up for mortality
a son, a lover, a gun: a fatality.