10-old soldiers

a bird calls

the anniversary

to order.

two bony hands

reaching from bed to bed

across years

sanguine enough

to still taste the sirens of the second world war;

where first they met

and second finally married,

with no one else in between.

dry wrinkled fingers

reaching across

these cold tiles

groping warmly

for each other,

touching.

tears wetting pillows,

knowing only that

they have to fall,

filling

an abysmal space

bridged

by soft eyes locking in the

whispering of honeymoons

and other deep memories.

small smiles twitching

and foamy at the edges,

hair

the white of winter straw.

new year’s eve

times square

1945,

when they married.

today,

the same countdown,

when their blood is pushed along

with nowhere to go,

the survival of two recruits

fetaled in a foxhole,

the only response to war.