He starts on the skin.
The General Rickettsia Prowazeki,
soulless and unquestioned,
marshals his forces.
Snipers, squint-eyed and itchy-fingered,
lurk in collars and cuffs, pick off their targets.
Starched officers bark orders from hems and ruffles.
Hungry infantry roll out on massive waves.
They bite, suck and shit,
flee the fever conflagration,
the chilling corpse,
destroyed by their own weapon.
Generations of invisible soldiers
race into the fray.
He goes from victim to victim
into Russia – the Volga front,
into the Pale of Settlement,
into Koretz.
20 million attacked, 6 million fall.
In his hands, the fate of nations –
and in his hands, my father’s parents.
