It started to rain and with it came a troupe
of orators––men of God,
carpetbaggers of every stripe.
Gingerly, to avoid the mud,
they stepped from one corpse to the next,
crossing the swamp, slipping on blood.
One started to speak, “Brethren in Christ…”
but stopped, perplexed, to see another man
wearing his face. This progressed,
speaker after speaker, until soon
each searched in panic through the group,
and when he found his stolen face, that one
he mounted and buggered, like boar on boar–
in self-love or -loathing, I wasn’t sure.
John Barr/Innisfree Poetry Journal