Anthony Howarth
Soldier, Who Will Patch What’s Left of You?
at night the weed the booze
the stars nailed to the sky
you on your back in the Afghan desert
staring at the spaces between them
screams
that haunt your sleep
two little girls one of them
as you propped her dead against the wall
wedging her cloth doll into her hand
you shot the sniper who killed your buddy
listened to your bunkmates cheering for you
listened to the clockwork captain
standing you at attention
barking an order
soldier, pull yourself together
the children cradled
next to the shatter of their mother
where you shrouded them
in a fantasy of sleep
Chris Tysh
Hinge
You rip the lid
On the latest myth
That all’s well
Now that we can
Ditch our masks
In one fell swoop
As if mere kitchen
Scraps not even a hint
Of deathly strands
Above the door
Nor a knife’s edge
In the lung
When heartbeats tremble
At the thought of what
Might’ve been
Dictée
It’s always towards the end of June
On the table instructions
On the gravity of our task
We the guardians of French grammar
We are to foil all cheating attempts;
Never once quitter des yeux the examining room;
Read the text slowly indicating commas
And periods; write author’s name and title
A whiff of sewage grabs me by the throat
I begin “La nuit, je n’apercevais qu’un petit morceau
Du ciel et quelques étoiles,”
When I repeat the phrase I check the corridor
For surveillants through the door’s porthole
My voice lowers to spell out verbs in the imparfait
And remind everyone that nouns and adjectives
Agree in gender. Point à la ligne. In the last row
Bodies corkscrew into question marks
Exquisite faces I scan in one long take
And indent the meaning of my dis-
Obedience while they write the last sentence:
Puis ces bruits expiraient pour recommencer encore.»
The possibility of spelling errors now
Just a specter they’re already laughing at
I light a gauloise on my way out