Share this:

Armistice

Curled against your hip in this shallow ditch,
I can almost forget the slow whine of
far-off mortar fire. I can almost forget the blood
that cakes the dust to your pant leg. I can almost
forget that tomorrow I will carry your
body fourteen miles on my shoulders.

The Belgian night is quiet, and for a while,
the only things raining down on us are the quivering lights
of all the stars over Europe, and for a while,
I am pretending this shallow muddy ditch is a bed
in New Hampshire, with white linens,
many pillows, and your skin.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
Your support makes poetry like this possible. Become a Patron today and unlock exclusive Patron-only poetry and other perks!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

*