Like bookmarks we had been inserted,
like a memory maintained,
like an annotated page, its scribbles barely discerned,
like 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 the ruddy ripe fruit from trees.
One day they showed us
how it went,
gave us a gun, and 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,
discord, 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.