the battle rages on. tracers pierce the obsidian night, quick flashes
of death eating the air. the enemy’s thunderous guns drive us mad,
and still we advance. cowardly stars slowly fade from the sky.
 
the luck that has shielded me is savagely torn away, as a bullet rips
flesh above my hip, burning, just as the sacred side of Christ was
desecrated by a Roman spear. another round finds me, & another; I
stumble & drop to the mud. perhaps a dozen stars, bravely, still shine.
 
in my daze, I sense a comrade grab me & drag me back. like a broken
marionette, I am tossed into a jeep with other wounded, driven to a
makeshift field surgical unit, to the rear of our line.
 
dysphoria clouds me, ghostly memories rise like Lazarus. I see the
children of my village playing in the dirt road, mimicking soldiers,
sticks for weapons. I watch my mother weeping, as I march to battle.
and there is the oak tree, where I sheltered from the Spring rain with
an auburn-haired girl, maiden of the willows, who startled me with
kisses. all the admiring stars in the sky regaled us, whispering ‘this
is love, & it is good.’ for one moment I embrace the vision of her,
whose lips I will never taste again…
 
barely conscious, I am on a gurney in the open air, medical personnel
probing my flesh, chasing bits of metal, evacuating blood, suturing,
under a sweating, dimming sky. abruptly they cease, their barely heard
mumbles telling me their efforts are wasted.
 
the final star blinks out. the black sky descends. it covers me like a
shroud, & I sleep, in absolute peace
 
beyond all the calendared morrows.