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The Last Day

The eyes of the guard
who motioned her forward
told her he’d done this
many times before

behind his peremptory bayonet
his eyes were dead like
an anaesthetic before
the operation from which
she’d not recover

after that, it was merely
a bad dream
the stripping,
the clang of the doors,
the singing. the singing

for death had spoken her already
a small mercy
in a day without mercy

poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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