Letter To A Soldier

what are you looking at soldier? what business is it of yours? you haven’t even slept inside Knocknasheen camp. tents dripping with the same water your grandmother drank, way back. ice at bedtime. crystals for sleep. you’ve pitched your tent. before you went home to snuggle up with a yellow hot waterbottle full of blue from the squalling cloud. what’s the point of interrogating you in county clare, under cratloe woods? there are monsters there. buried under the minefield. if only the men-in-tents, behind the wire, knew when there’d be time to masticate your secrets. no dogs or cats to huddle with, inside. no hugs or touch to dilute the night. quintessentially pathetic. empathetically immovable. whose birthright? where have you buried the houses, the logs, fireplaces, under-floor heat? the limerick leader suggested your parents invited your birth. inhabitants in the camp invited to freeze, and free food. what are you looking at soldier? did you hear the question? how deep did it sink into your wounds? what business is it of yours? warrior for refugees. you are seen with arms, folded now. they used to be fond. you exploded with the scent of love. wrote lust letters to kyiv, odessa. crimean tears watered fruit trees that never blossomed. from inside the tents, scrutinised. from trench-mud, proudly begged, like the rough smelly body on o’connell street at noon. why are you looking? it’s not your business now, surely. after sleep, you’ll be back soldier. statue. your mouth ready to fire missiles back, take out drones, tanks for tents. itching to fire your pen. alert. chattering for freedom. shattered. worn down by fitness to serve desperados with the courage of your convictions. conscious of conscience. considering whether today’s the day to enroll as a conscientious objector. the cold won’t linger, will it? soldier, welcome back. how was dinner for you?