Years before talking animals and Thought
Police, you stood in the trench near Huesca,
dawn at your back, when the Fascist’s gunshot
bolted through the air, tunneling your neck.
Sandbags shrunk to teabags as your eyes glazed,
blood seeping from your lips. The glaring streaks
of light fused with spewed gasps. Mates’ whispers phased
to sloshing footsteps bearing you as squeaks
of your stretcher recalled a child’s new shoes.
Somehow that image assured you of life.
A silver poplar leaf brushed your eyebrow,
making you long for Eileen, your new wife.
She would join you soon, caring for the wound.
You’d heal, your voice a haunting, muted sound.
Roger Armbrust
September 6, 2007
