Kristin Kelly

I said
one of them
would rather not leave his bedroom

felt pennants, baby blue walls
right where the wall touches ceiling, a borderland
coming together, falling apart.

He lies legs curled up under National League names
on a narrow Sears mattress
he sweats.

He killed 16 Iraqis
7 all at once
16 in all (by best count)

He throws up every morning
leaves the perimeter at night
chews his mother’s meatloaf
which (refrigerator gray)
lurches down his throat like
damp Sand
in the mountain moonlight would.

Mid-day (3:30) he thinks hard about killing himself
right when the school bus skulks by
no mercy in brakes and gears
shattering machinery of war.

(“Is this too much for you?” he said.)

Thrown open windows to childhood
flecked with blood, streaked with grief.
Cackling God overseer with a far rabid dog
(shoot the dog, shoot the motherfucking dog)

200 Iraqis zip tied
in blue-black hoods covering wounds
(I told you, my friend:
this is what happens when you fuck with the Americans.)

On the same street, around that same time
the borders fall down; his bed is transported.
Little boys cheer wildly when batter steps up to plate.
The bat splinters wickedly when the ball
hits the sweet spot,
climbs back to heaven, and
frames for all time, in a blue Boston sky
the perfect head shot.