Post War

My body is a post-war wasteland
there are mines that explode when you run
your fingers over my skin
and there are graves of burning men and women
planted in half-moon craters across my arms
and on Sundays when I wash my hair
my knees are suddenly wet with red
John Frieda said the dye wouldn't fade for two weeks
but really, who could ever predict
sudden death
or stop gunshot bleeding
John Frieda didn't know shit
nor did any John ever who said
"It'll be okay"
You asked me why I don't talk to you anymore
I won't tell you
because telling means talking and talking
is not something that dead people do.
I always wondered why I could never
bear to hear you sing
and then I realized, yesterday
that no one ever appreciated
sing-song cruelty
Who ever wanted music
in a gas chamber?