By Gerry Sloan
(Served with Beer, Wine, or Coffee)
You have to wonder how long it takes
for current horrors to become tourist
attractions, or whether we the living
are tourists unaware, sleepwalking
through the unspeakable. Would you
care for some paprika on your blood
pudding, or a dusting of powdered tibia
over your pasta?
Accountability
seems to require a century of denial,
or at least until perpetrators are safely
tucked into their tombs. It's time to board
the bus, take a Selfie with Crematorium,
the dioramas out of sight and out of mind
as we blithely leave this country of the blind.
Gerry Sloan is a retired music professor living in the Arkansas Ozarks. Besides
writing poetry, his hobbies are movies and Japanese pottery. Collections are
Paper Lanterns (2011), Crossings: A Memoir in Verse (2017), plus a chapbook
length selection in Wild Muse: Ozarks Nature Poetry (2022), all available on
Amazon. Recent work appears in Sierra Nevada Review, Cold Mountain Review,
Slant, and Mid/South Sonnets. His poetry website is under construction.
Hot Pot Magazine 