Shattered Glass

Tanks tear through

flaming towns- a

mother shielding bullets.

the world erupts

in ammo and he is

alive in a sea of

broken bodies.

In his tattered tent,

late-night he

is broken too-

like bone spurs

and flailing tendons.

He touches me

like I was

shattered glass-

soft, like carnage.

I sweat and he

drinks me like

canteen water.

I rest, he waits

on my desert-sand

blankets-

fingers braiding

my loose strands-

assemble, disassemble.

The scent of sawdust

and powder lingers

on his almond stained skin.

I inhale and hold him,

gently.