I wrote this, shivering, at a bus stop in January. I thought it might be nice to reminisce, in the depths of the hottest summer ever, on a time when the sun was not an enemy beating down punishment on sweaty, burnt skin, but a warm friend in a dark winter.
Needles of frost wriggle into coats,
slipping through woven armor
like frozen dirks through cotton mail.
Frigid tentacles, probing, worming into gaps in the line, searching for the smallest weakness.
invisibly, soundlessly, they snake over the ground,
creeping up from behind.
Suddenly—
The advance!
Unsuspecting infantry caught in an expert ambush,
a time-honored tactic, honed to perfection.
Over the barricade it pours,
plucking and peeling at naked skin, scraping knuckles raw,
Painting cheeks and noses red — like blood,
snot gushes from twin wounds.
Into the night the battle rages
Like the crust of a half-frozen puddle under a child’s shoe,
battalions shatter under the icy barrage
Endless rounds from frigid firing lines pierce exposed skin;
bombarded by rounds of sleet, hail, and snow, shell-shocked civilians slink to safety.
But
the casualties, not yet dead
— a smattering of pseudo-corpses —
lie still on the concrete battleground.
Unburied
abandoned
forgotten.
Irony Poison 