Poetry 365

The first time Henri died
he rose like Lazarus
sprawled across barbed wire—
the fog strummed him
like the birth of jazz.
I counted my empty slots
in my pistol
until there were none.

The second time Henri died
he died like a song
from the last German opera—
no one heard it,
it didn’t even echo.
I waited for the instrument
of peace and forgetfulness
to play its one note.