When it snows, the entire post
shuts down like there is no war
going on. Perhaps the higher-ups
decide to let those left behind,
for the moment, savor the chance
to shape snowmen with their children
or lie beside another warm body.
Probably it is lack of preparedness.
What happens after: the snow melts,
permeates fractures in the asphalt on
Normandy, Ardennes, Bastogne,
European places famous for dead men,
now used as street names where,
for the time being, no soldiers
will be training. The snow sits
as water, freezes in frigid air
into ice. What happens is the
molecules expand, opening their
arms like the universe, like all of us
reaching out for someone to arrive,
until the black asphalt breaks, and
the soldiers of our hearts are
back to work, cleaning up the pieces.
Zachary Lunn reads “Fort Bragg Winter”
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