Deborah Guzzi

sacrifice unfolds
like the paper cranes around the necks
of kamikaze pilots
chafing the fragile nerve ending
of a finite life, playing fugues and dirges
on the dawning

sacrifice chews       the bones
of beauty, mangling the pleasant corpse
where lovers lie       untidy are the paths politic
the rising sun finds only the ash
of mourning

sacrifice swallows     the unholy act     alone
leaving only blasted shadows where women might
have stood—girls' souls who never left the palm of Gabriel
hulled by coat hangers—die in the streets of Calcutta
Unborn dreams—Eve’s legacy

do we regret
we regret
regret