Note From the Front
by
Kathleen Peckham

Your letter came
They make you more real to me than
you sometimes are
I read slowly each line
savor the words
let the pictures you paint
become murals I spread around me
The colors glow
keep me warmer than you'd ever guess
The clouds today are mares' tails
spread in a fan
from a heavier gray bankbut the rest of
what you consider normal
is less than a dream here
distant as the farthest star
It is cold
Ice like knives cuts me to shreads
The rain that comes and goes
leaves me soggy and depressed
Never am I full enough
At least the sky
doesn't care about war
goes on with its business
of moon and sun
as if none of this were happening
The moon has been quite lovely
fills and empties with light in rhythm
a changing but constant friend
I wish I'd seen this land in better times
I feel the spirits of more peaceful beings
trapped in the very dirt we use
for foxholes
The enemy has no face
but I know his gut
is sick of this as I am
Someday when these
months are a dim memory of an awful vision
perhaps we can come here together
I will show you where I pray
to return to you alive
the places I've said goodbye
to comrades who've had to stay

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