In 1945, their last war ended
– celebrate the triumph of freedom
– freedom happens when we win.
Freedom is always the victor’s ambrosia.
Here the air is still and stale.
I feel the heat and sweat upon me.
I lean against the cold hard side of my trench.
And I know what put me here.
There the women carry clothes to the river
and wash the dust of the river’s edge back into the river.
They carry the heavier load back to drape to dry
and gather dust from the edge of the river.
Then a fantasy strikes.
Then a ghost will appear.
Then a group of men will decide the way to go
and everyone will follow.
Here the ground is like a roux beneath my feet
and my nervous shifting makes me sway.
I have a memory of soft edges
– a trick of a mind diminishing.
(spoken word recording on Bandcamp)