Winning
George Bowering
The priests are blessing guns again,
sending men to their knees
before their graves.
In time of kings
the golden throne
grew high with each dead soldier.
Now dead soldiers
buy new Cadillacs with bucket seats
for citizens
who own
factories.
Our sons are dying in Asia
cries the senator
who signed the paper
to make the bombs
to drop on the smile of Asia.
“Peace,” whispers the sergeant squeezing the trigger.
“Peace,” shouts the President signing the paper.
“Peace,” say the voters, empty-eyed
on their lawns of Asian skin.
“Peace,” is the sound of jelly gas
taking the living plants off a hillside,
skin off a girl’s back.
& the bleeding muscles cry “Peace.”
Peace be with you say the Priests in Asia,
& they wear U.S. Army boots,
the rubber soles notched for war.
The General says Peace
is Victory, whose dream of Victory
is blood oozing from the brain.
Victory is to the God of War his praise
who never sought for Peace,
who twists a man in his fire
& stamps an eagle on him,
prey-bird that falls on pigeons
like jet fighters
on the lonely bicycles of Asia.
“Peace” —the sergeant holds his machine gun.
“Peace” —the priests holds his silver cross.
The Eagle laughs.
He is 50,000 feet above the ground
of Asia.
Bowering, George. “Winning.” Open Letter 6 (Feb. 1967): 18.