The Parcel
“It’s a parcel for you, Sarge!”
the words hung visibly;
condensed in the bitter air.
Ice underfoot cracked
beneath the sodden boots
approaching;
each step releasing
fetid odours
of rotting corpses,
faeces,
death,
that it was hitherto
holding at bay.
A dozen pairs of eyes
stared, greedily
as the package exchanged hands.
Shaking,
the sergeant held the box
in its crude wrapping
of brown paper
and string.
Eventually
he pulled off his stiff mittens
with teeth
which shifted painfully
in complaint
at the effort.
He glanced impassionately;
three fingers of one hand
four, on the other
useless black stumps,
rotted,
from frostbite,
neglect,
and gangrene.
His index still there
as was himself;
he could still pull a trigger.
‘Friends’ eagerly helped
the unwrapping;
a taste of candy
a drag on a ciggy
their anticipated reward.
He stared at the contents.
A pair of red gloves;
each finger lay there
as fresh, as red, as a poppy;
with a note from a child:
“Dear Tommy
I knitted these for you in class
to keep you warm
while you keep us safe,
I hope you like them,
Lillian.”
Of What Use Are Gloves To Fingers That Only Understand Mittens Poetry Contest: Placed 2nd
Sponsored by: John lawless
Date written 21st December 2022
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