Brent Fisk

Respite Before the Push

for Wilburn Prince

The soldiers slept inside, the broken
pews turned to makeshift beds,
a bright moon peering through
the cathedral roof
like the cold eye of God.

So many Germans rigid
in their sleep, stacked side by side,
soundly dead and quiet.
No candle lit in prayer, no cigarettes
to catch a sniper's eye.

The lookout startled by the feral cat.
My grandfather learned to live
with the smell of blood,
to eat bread with stained fingers, a stink
of fear against the ribs.

If he could open up and swallow food,
he could also nurse a thready drowse.
If he could fill the night air
with cataloged prayer, he could drive away the dead--
who stumbled, looking hard
for warmth, a final place to rest.

by Alex Nodopaka

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