Michael Pogachar

May 1945

A little song, so tightly packed, like flying

 V’s of geese upswept across the sky,

 is how this dead lies closed.  The veiled sing

 by dropping chins.  Abandoned victory sighs

 from Adolf’s corpse, spreads to news, and blows

 the blitz away from London like a pall

 from fading fires.  A bandaged world in clouds,

 crater-pocked, but nations still enthralled.

 Paula speaks, but no one hears.  She weeps

 a surname lullabye; her tears cascade

 off history books and pool around her feet:

 secluded, private tears.  Europe parades.

 And Paula doesn’t tear his picture from

 the frame, but clears the mantel of its dust.