One of these blocks thrown hard and nicely aimed,
and one more right away as guarantee
should leave her dead or seriously maimed.
She had no chance to live, don’t you agree?
A sideways leap, in each front foot a stone,
a glancing blow, then she hits me with one.
My next is on its mark but not well thrown.
She looks…Oh, ’52, what have I done?
There is no time for greetings, nor to ask
what happened how and who misunderstood.
We’re here together with a pressing task.
We’re hurt and scared (that’s bad), alive (that’s good).
We must stop talking now; they’re drawing near.
I still don’t know if ’52 is mad.
She should be angry; my arrival here
destroyed whatever hope she might have had.
©2010 Louis A. Merrimac
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