Tyler Wilcox


A cossack firing squad
Each round an anxiety
No ceasefire could quell.

Battlefield surgeons
Hold whiskey anesthetic
With all the precision that brings.

Cut blind at dirty
Stitches; wounds
Hastily sewn shut.

Refugee camps line the pavement
Like plaques left to commemorate
The wounded and the damned.

The spring sunshine stands tall
The time when kings leave their kingdoms
March out towards battles on battles.

Red Army retreat meets indifferent fire;
Sensuous mass of limbs move,
Her voice cracking no quarter.

Again, I'm on the rack
A glutton for punishment,
My joints too close together, anyway.

Loose lips sink ships
I sing like a bird
Calling to

The sick moon,
In her wisdom
Igniting her pale beauty.

Her grey pallor
Like a ghost
Gone to haunt.

Submitted: Friday, August 23, 2013
Edited: Monday, August 26, 2013

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