The dead are a sacred gift.

We treat them with respect
We are called by their names
Their families become ours.

We don’t take them
Fresh from the slaughter
Wear them like cloaks
Plunder their memories.

I could protest—
It was an accident; I didn’t mean to!—
But I’m not so weak and sniveling.

No excuses.

My family has been butchered
Those that remain rightfully shun me
I can never go back beneath the earth.

Why shouldn’t I take
And take
And take?