Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from The Sefer, Vol. 10: Spring, 1983
Something, muttered the magazine pages and I stopped and found the child. I could see its ancestry flung from the wombs of Cambodia and Vietnam from the very thighs of battlefields, and trench-lines and blood. Your tiny frame is front-lined by jutting bone flesh puffy with a hundred orphanages, and missing teeth like missing parents. Oh baby! You are the final sum of war, and can't know of Nixon, of Congress of the blood-spangled banner that flaps on our porches, or of chicken on Sunday. Damn! And Damn, I scream at your picture, wetting it with my draft-card tears cause your eyes, your time/life, black dying eyes, whisper of apocalypse.
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