wasps, someone from another unit
thought them wasps—the shells. buzzing
in grain. ingrained. in
the black watch, they don’t learn the word
retreat. it’s nowhere to be found
on the training fields of mcgill,
in the folds of a kilt. 305 of 320.
i imagine dali.
stalks of some indeterminate grain, stretching into
fingers digging their graves.
the shells—leaving guns,
and by their speed and ferocity,
sprouting wings and stingers:
transforming into wasps just before the
boys based in montreal.
three hundred dead led by a third-string jr. officer
(a grammar school headcase, a man at war
with his wife and the ghost of his
soldiers, pieces of soldiers—at rest, at peace again.
fertilizer for the indeterminate
grains of verrières ridge, normandy,
the summer of ’44.
- robinson, matt.
grain.Canadian Literature 164 (2000): 56. Print.