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.
Copyright © Kelsey May | Year Posted 2014
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