Uncle Hitler
And why is it that death
feels so unnatural
in the morning?
Six children in pale
shades of blue
sing to him. It's near
the end and he smiles
anyway. Delicate
hands prepare their dinner
in the next room. Shells,
artillery shake dust
from the walls. It’s almost
midnight and they eat
anyway. In the hallway
later a soldier makes
a promise to him—no one
will see his body, dead
or alive. They burn it
twice. Anyway, the six
children were sleeping
when their mother slipped
cyanide between their molars;
she was tucking them in
anyway.