Red Moonlight

• Trillian Sharples, Grade 11
• Poetry
• 2019

He is cold on top of me.
Are they gone? Hours have passed.
So many bodies to hide under.
So many to choose from. Coward.

I wriggle like the worm I am.
Awash in all the blood we have reaped.
The mud is wrong. It is not right.
No water. Only blood. I crawl in it.
It draws me in. There is no end to it.

Shelter at last. There is no dust as I crawl.
There is a blanket here. And a gun.
I feel safe. I pull out the soldiers' letter.
It is heavier than it should be. I open it.

Paper slides away as the pocket watch falls to my hand.
And the note. Bloodied and beaten I can still read it. All nine words.

To my dearest Beauregard, I love you. I am sorry.