Poem of the Week

The sun smote him by night. He was writing a letter to his

father in ENGLAND: “Dear . . .” the stars mirrored what

he wrote but kept their distance. He shook his jam jar

of fireflies blinky blinks and heard heavy cannonade

blasting from the direction of HEREIRA. Bursting shells

danced on the ridges behind ATAWINEH REDOUBT. He

remembered that BELLAM was BETHLEHEM pitching

between alms and lust. But he couldn’t remember if Jesus

was of NAZARETH or of BETHLEHEM or of GALILEE.

A lateral skanking natty dread at the bus depot in

GOLDEN GROVE told the boy that Jesus was of no

place but here and touched his chest.

It was around this time No. 2292 Pte. Herbert Morris aged

17 was executed for desertion by firing squad composed

of 7 WEST INDIAN soldiers and 3 white soldiers. His

soul fled to MIDIAN accordingly.