*dedicated to my beloved Misha - Happy early Valentine's Day!*
Heavy wool blankets
Olive drab
Scratch bare skin
His fingers
Cold as bullets
On her face
Her thigh stretches
Muscular against his
"Lyubov"
Love in his native Russian
In her voice
But he won't dare
Correct her accent
Scent of gunpowder
Specks of dried blood
In his hair
And she can hear
Almost
Dead German voices
In his mind
French trees
Block the moon
Hide them
Naked
A scar is fresh
Across her breast
Down her body
Snake-like
To the womb
Now empty
Its pain whispers
Like the spirits
Her lover hears
Consequences
Forgotten
Against her
He is hard
As the 1911
She carries at her side
But now
On French land
Liberated
Not yet won
The price
Of pleasure
Seems higher
Than Italy
A year ago
But the blankets feel the same