Like bookmarks inserted, like hard disc
data-bases of memory for long-term storage,
annotated pages, scribbles barely discernable,
we had been put there like minor pieces on a board,
and were now enmeshed in the midst
of a war.
Still, we didn’t give a damn. Just let us play our game,
pick ruddy ripe fruit from trees.
One day they showed us how it went,
gave us a gun, taught us how to aim.
My glasses were thick as a cup of tea;
It was like looking at the moon.
We took our two
young children to the edge.
They scrambled in and out of tanks,
played amongst carcasses
that had been left to rot.
In the distance smoke rose
like an impressionist bouquet.
You could hear noises, discordant protesting shouts.
Radioactive dust began to spread
so we had to leave.
They said, First you should see
how it has to end. They took us to a tree
where many of the enemy
had been hung. Their pants were wet.
We took souvenir coins
from their pockets to show the kids.
Figs were good that day;
would practically melt in your mouth.
