war stories


the small hours are mine
house quiet
everyone asleep
a dog’s bark echoes
through the hills
bouncing off the pines
up against the reachable stars

of all my war stories
folding them up tonight
end over end
into a small triangle
or maybe
just balled up tight
in the shape of a heart
or the shape of a fist

these war stories
are tired
possibly sad
definitely boring
no one wants to hear them
i no longer yearn to tell them
locking them up tonight
in a small metal box
to bury it in the soft dirt
under the pine needles
and moonlight

by dumb luck
i have dodged bullets
and shooting stars
and falling planets
to find myself now creating
wonderful new stories
stories worth sharing
stories worth hearing
and they have absolutely nothing
to do with a fist
or a gun
or for that matter
even a pen

pull on my boots
slip on my jacket
the sun will wake soon
time to get the shovel


Words and Image: B. Reeves


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