recoil

A speciality in 

Disarming me.

My rifle, tightly clutched 

to my slingshot, 

despite your pulling and 

your yank thank you’s.

And then you. 

Brush it off without the polish.

Lying in prone, amid stinging nettles. 

Face down into weeds. 

Trousers catch on thorns. 

Skin stitched with burrs. 

Fingertips without feeling, 

Right shoulder bruised from the recoil. 

Bones cold. 

But still, you wake me up as sentry 

With a kiss 

For a war like ours.