[Here is the antepenultimate section of Poem 17, entitled Psychopomp. ‘Psychopomp’ is a word of Ancient Greek origin used in mythology to refer to a figure who guides a still-living human being on a tour of the afterlife or ferries the dead to the underworld. In Modern English, the form of the word is obviously replete with other resonances.]

The grim reapers are recruited

from the ranks of the deceased

body-guards of dictators.

Gaddafi’s big-busted security detail rubs

shoulders with Milosevic’s steely jawed thugs,

jogging

alongside the long entourage of hearses,

as Madame Mao’s host of student revolutionaries

throng the streets, waving

little red flags of books

to wish them on their way.

Mike and Caligula take up the rear

and bask in the adoring mob;

relishing their triumph

over life and death alike

with rapid bursts of automatic rifle

fire into air

and proud raised fists,

as black-masked ISIS and IRA martyrs

loose a salvo of gunshots over

their smiling blood-smeared faces

and ducking laurel-garlanded heads.