A Poem by Violet Mitchell
All the ammo is gone in the sky.
I stocked everyone’s back pocket
with a stub of aloe vera, just in case
the war can’t wait. We celebrate,
and sometimes forget what day it is.
My great uncle says they sound
like his trench buddy slumping over
and the red dripping down the bridge
of his nose or the boy he kicked
to the jungle to save him from orange
morphing American War bones.