fine tune-age
Here's another copy of "spit"; still trying to decide where i want to locate the poem. Top two contenders right now are El Salvador and South Africa. (It started out in El Salvador, but I'm open to other possibilities).

spit

they came with
mortars, torches, and death.
papi fled as planned.

his bullet pierced mami’s temple;
blood dripped like her spit down
the soldier’s face. neither flinched.

And.. another death-infused poem for your enjoyment...

I'm in a poetry workshop at the moment. Our last assignment was to write a poem in blank verse. Check it. I went the iambic pentameter route.

needle, vein, death.

a second left and all I want to know
is how the blade felt sliding through your ribs

I carved a turkey with a duller blade
but sharpened this one just for your demise.

I guess that makes you special; mi amor,
in death we reunite; I’ll see you soon.

work in progress

spit

the soldiers, or were they soldiers?,
came at night with no insignia:
just mortars, torches, death.

as we planned, papi fled to the hills.

his bullet pierced mami's temple;
her blood dripped like her spit
down the soldier's face.

neither he, nor she, flinched.