I lay my fingers tenderly upon them
some fine and white with age
some tanned brown, smooth and flat
some raw. Raised. Angry.
Too new to be at peace with being.
I have been asked if I feel shame
over their being.
Shame?
Does the conscripted soldier
feel shame over shrapnel wounds?
Remnants of past savages.
My battle scars!
The undeclared war rages on
At times, the desire to abandon the fight is
Fierce
I am often dizzy from the wrath of the battle.
Unsure of which direction leads us upwards
Conscripted to be part of this torment
Rightfully ensnared by the Furies
In the pale lull between skirmishes
I find reassurance in these fine lines and jagged squiggles
which bisect my arms, crosshatch my abdomen
Each one evidence of blood spilled into the swirling spiral
But each, too, evidence of a battle won
not without costs, but not without compensations.
I am.
Bottom line.
I am.
C. L. Davis