Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Comments about Andie Wingham
There's something honest in the drift of sea salt in the air
or the sweat of fear grippling shirt cotton to the back.
And the tear, a single tear dripping onto the stock of the rifle
held like an awkward stone to the shoulder. Legs firm though,
boots shined, and the trigger waiting - that hair line distance
between breathing and the disgust of rotting that is death.
He pulled his finger. Like the other five, commanded - 'Aim;
Fire.' So he did, as if he were pressing the camera shutter.
But he wasn't. And the girl sweating too, stood rigid then slumped, ...