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

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