by Catherine Gonick
At night, on a street near his house
neighbors follow as soldiers carry
a spent missile as if it were a body.
The weapon that landed, killing
only itself, is about the size
of a man, maybe six feet long,
one end twisted by impact.
It takes three men to carry the gray
corpse to wherever they are going.
I don’t know how it is in Hebrew
or Arabic, but in English, when we say
a body, we know without being told
whether the body is dead or alive.
Catherine Gonick has published poetry in journals including Live Encounters, Notre Dame Review, Forge, Blue Heron Review,and Beltway Poetry Quarterly, and in anthologies including Support Ukraine, Grabbed, and Rumors, Secrets & Lies: Poems About Pregnancy, Abortion and Choice. She works in a company that slows the rate of global warming through projects that repair and restore the climate.
