Under the imposing sky a lone recruit cowers

Under the imposing sky a lone recruit cowers
Like a baby. Trembling hands, suckling in the womb
Of concrete bay. Not grabbing, stillborn. Insignificant
Life under that wide wide screen of air and green.

Whisper counting, and lips pressed into the cool
Rifle, kissing prayers and still alive for one thousand-
Two thousand- three thousand… still alive.
Heartbeat pulsing on the pads of fingers as though
The weapon was a harp, or something alive and
Grateful like an instrument beating calluses pulse by
Steady pulse. And suddenly the air is

Snatched away and an invisible hand forced through
Intertwined fingers with a grip like a cheating
Adulterer and the child stills at that foreign touch.
Oh the sound, the cruel sound that stops the heart
Takes greedily more than the touch and it goes
To the bones, to the bones, even from a distance.
The air vibrates like a baby’s cry and the world shrinks,
Size of an open mouth and bloody closed fists.

In that instance, she goes to sleep like that,
Counting the seconds, curled, as though in pain and
Posed for a painting of mourning, in the lonely place
Between the bay, the bruising rifle and the heartbeat in her ears.