Dionysus

They come to my table,

the forsaken men,

from their lands

of iron and mud.

 

Where smoke and poison

choke the sky

and their brave blood

drops heavy with the bullets.

 

Where rats feast

on corpses that come

a penny a pound;

because it’s cheaper than feeding a man.

 

Where they

clutch at holes

in their bellies, and ache from pains in

missing legs.

 

But these things don’t

drive them here.

The ache of hunger and the sting of violence

are pains long-endured.

 

But when they realize that

none love them,

and they are wanted only for

the brief strength of their arm,

 

Then they crawl to

my table,

and find wine-dark succor,

in madness.