To the victims of the mass genocide inside the University of New Orleans’ dormitory’s light bulb

Grant Campbell

Daniel Vines and Contributor

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You composed your own execution
When you searched the ceiling to prey.
How wound you in that web of wires?
Smelling the fear of food inside the dark feeding bowl,

You dropped down, hit
The high ground, sat
On your victims, but
Their fear did not spike;
It was flat as the still universe. They even

Begged for your feast:
“Before the next shower, please!”
The sun does not rise, it

—Ambushed by your predator,
You are blinded and too warm, but you can still
See the corpses of thirty-two foes
And comrades, and nineteen
Who surrendered and wait impatiently for their number.
You are number twenty.

You climb
You fall
You suffer
You slowly cook beside the sun and under
The rising steam of sanitation.

You composed your own execution
When you stilled the bowl’s bottom to pray.