War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

November 12th

Now Morning from her orient chamber came. Keats

she watched the skin of war drawn tight
upon your face, asleep, drugged deep
your handsome heart it missed a beat
gone laugh, gone ease, you’d wept and wept
your elbows kneed, head cupped in hands
that held the steel, that held the dead,
still washing from your pores, the sand
the shit, the stroll, patrol, the Dande
the river bed, the rocks, the filth,
the dread, the village pass, and still
and still you slept a restless rest, a restive
rest of restlessness, the skin beneath
your uniform she kissed, the skin beneath
the soft caress and still you slept
deep restlessness until the whisky jack of break
upon her ledge, it cawed and cawed
the skin of war began to slake,
your medals and your polished brass
your DUs and your bloody knotted sash
stayed folded on the easy chair,
as morning spread upon her bed
then you began to wake.


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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled November 12th. It was posted here on November 14, 2010.

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