Ten February nineteen forty two,
the snow looked at me askew
from a ditch in Russia
(or was it askance)
Dusk is falling with my hopes of survival.
Artillery fire from St Petersburg crackles.
White smoke rises above the neutral tree line.
Hitler, in his bunker, contemplates suicide.
Cries of command
Cries of god damn
My virginity is intact yet
Did you see the sun set
When will my pants seam crease?
When will we cease to stand?
How grievous, I thought, is the peace
and the tranquility of this land.
About the Creator
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson5 days ago in Fiction
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