My dearest John,
I cannot tell 
how much I wept, 
how hard it is for me
to sleep
imagining your shell-shocked comrades 
crying, mud-reeked in your
gangrene-boredom
of November rain,
but I know of lack 
of food and sustenance 
because also here
starvation stares from sunken eyes.

I know the howl of falling bombs,
at three AM, 
I know the sound of soldier’s boots
and agitated songs declaring war.
It feels like sleep
will only briefly come at dawn.

They say it’s going well,
in war, we win, they say that soon
a brave new world
for us 
will phoenix from the ashes
of the past, but John,
Oh dear, I cannot see 
how we can be
together.

John, I need to sleep,
and your letters stink of blood.
Dear, John, it’s time
to say goodbye,

I will leave this town, 
and find somewhere 
out west,
where the wind is free…