WWII

Brass bullet in the laurel bushes

I always imagined your wrists would taste like olive oil. Bread dipped in sweat.

Your long breath,
Looking out under the sun.
Glinting glinting
Not the color of brass, but dull and shining as midday.

Sleeves rolled up, stained with sweat.
I think it could be olive oil.

Did you know you’d slip into my mouth as you slipped into the laurels?
Little leaves that don’t flutter,
I read your name out loud, foreign as that distant sea.