Reflections on the Cultural Revolution

After a firefight, scores of trucks

came slowly down the street,

tailgates dropped, stacked with bodies.

I stood at the corner with a curious heart,

watching the others, listening to the talk

of how bullet wounds bloom.

I had a vision of many flowers

blossoming from heads, chests, backs.

On one truck, a pair of feet

stuck out from beneath the canvas,

the left in its shoe, the toes of the other

poking through a sock.

I thought of my grandfather

saying people in hell

had to wear forever

the clothes they died in.