Lungs Fell In

(something like a Mitch Robinson erasure poem)



Mussolini’s bald head
the only cloud hanging over the field
hosting the young fascists’ wedding,
pretty young girl,
overweight boy.
His brother, Viktor, in a metal chair.

The bridesmaids’ short dresses cut just above the knee.

An older girl’s varicose choking her
left calf, a curved swastika bumping
every sweat bead that travels
the map to her feet.
Like fish in a net,
the skin pops between them.

The sun burns Mussolini’s scalp.

The Americans march forward,
wedding speeds up. The veins beat.
With the woman swollen like a red balloon,
ribbon crawling up to tickle her,
the wedding about-faces
and marches down the haphazard isle.
Party in tow.

Viktor marches.

The veins, they throb until the skin pops,
producing a pistol
that shoots Viktor in the head.
A bloody mess the celebrators march
into the dried grass.