Dying Beautifully (circa 1950)

Back then if we had to die we always died
as painfully and slowly as we could:
machinegunned by the Nazis, got me! we cried,
and climbed to our knees before we fell for good;

or backstabbed by the treacherous Comanches
we twirled and croaked and hit the hard wood floor,
as mothers keened and beat their breasts like banshees,
and then astonishingly rose once more,

and ptyew, ptyew, take that! take this!
till all of us lay flat with lolling tongues.
These days death still takes its own sweet time
but now that we have serious need of them,
where is the righteous war father won?
Where is mother's goodnight-dearest kiss?