Stung Eye
Stung Eye

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Sam, a friend, sent me some of his poetry last week. I particularly enjoy this poem:

The War Bride

I lay awake last night and dreamed of her
One heart still beating by the lonely Somme
She wears these scars to remember the battles
Only those she lost, never those she won.

Her hair is black like a murder of crows
A liquor of ravens or a paper of pins
Please wake her before her cover blows
And her squadron of heroes comes running in.

Her father has made her wash for him
Every night since her coming of age
His vision soaks her body and his eyes
Cut like a thousand obsidian blades

She sings him to his gentle sleep
Selects one blade from the length of her arm
She watches the water still and deep
And leaves his body on the banks of the Marne.

I love her pale skin against my arm
The thrust of her back and her desperate rage
Her Passchendaele cross, her echo of Christ
And her hundred thousand obsidian blades

My head on her shoulder like a murderer knows
A disorder of conscience, a concubine's guilt
I wake her, she rises soft and she goes
To the house her holy soldier built



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