To REMW

Last night we dined:
I held the colleague's mask before my hate,
though self-love keeps you blind.
You purred, and patronized, and tossed a crust
to this or other lucky one—
Oh, you were great,
so finely gracious, with your rasping tongue
honeyed to sickliness. And then the snarl
and twist of lips as you flung
down the searing phrase—
'the young men should go forward to be killed'.
I did not build
my façade yesterday. I did not speak
knowing that vengeance was not mine to wreak,
but rather felt a little wonder
at a man who with a word
makes so sure when he dies
(and you not now so young)
that judgement should not be deferred
but he straightway must stand
and read his sentence in the puzzled eyes
and strained pale faces of those murdered boys.

4 November 1944