Fuel Rations

And it happened to be springtime when I joined the militia so when we brandished our guns, there were light breezes overhead, bird song in the air, flower sprouts, and happiness that winter was fled to her hibernation cave was visible on every civilian's face. It was not quite as terrible, then, to plug a body with its fate-bullet when the face seemed so modestly happy about something, the weather, a friend's engagement, iced pomegranate drink, spring things. Didn't they all say, “At least I died in spring!” with their round, lifeless eyes, proud of surviving another starving winter in the famine-stricken desert, able to hold the hands of all the children they began the cold months with, bellies full enough to last the scarcity of fuel rations and drought. Washing out my uniform at night in the river, I'd imagine the blood specks that had spurted happily from whatever orifice had been shot were merely traces of confetti that had burst forth from the eager soul's celebratory last moments. This poem appears online at http://wordsareaneed.blogspot.com/2014/07/fuel-rations.html.