B i l l  C h r i s t o p h e r s e n

Chalatenango

The clinic's gone--three sisters killed,
mercy itself the killers' target.  A  
rogue brigade?  Come on.  A Marxist 
cell?  What kind of history is fulfilled

when guardsmen mutilate a nun,
mail extremities to a mother?  Father,
shake the sleep from your eyes, muster up!
The broken bodies bloat in the sun.

 

Bill Christophersen's poems have recently appeared, or are shortly to appear, in Hanging Loose, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Light Quarterly, Potomac Review, Rhino, Sierra Nevada Review, Tampa Review and Yale Review.  He lives in New York City and plays country fiddle.