Plate 36
(referring to plate 36 from
THE DISASTERS OF WAR
by Francisco Goya)
Contemplating this corpse,
you lean back on your elbow.
A heart not pumping,
blood not coursing.
Is that not a corpse?
Is it not dead as a snail's
shell?
Your eyes fixed on his
face;
composure.
There, that's where you recline;
beneath his composure
trumping the handiwork
of the hangmen who
thought,
(as they always do),
that death was the final
transaction.
