Am I a bad person,
for liking a man in a uniform,
even though I cringe
at the thought of the material
giving way to daggers
and silver
bullets?
I feel like I am. My gut.
The tree bark watches as this boy—
just a boy, not yet a man,
like every classic love song—
stands cold in the snow.
His boots have worn through the toe
and his toes have worn through the boots.
He slices the snow,
dragging a blade behind him.
Now, thir't, four't, fifth, six't,
lift your rifle.
Hold it at right shoulder.
Walk to your spot
by the snow that has melted
and frozen over.
Stand on the rocks and look
at your reflection.
You will die here.
You will be shot in eight counts.
You will fall,
thinking of the river at home
instead of yourself.
Hold your rifle at right shoulder.
Five, six, seven, eight—