The Woman Soldier Opens Fire by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

Her skin was Pokemon yellow but

nobody looked for the monster in her –

the florists daughter retching from her ointment

cared not if the fire was Russian or Brexit European

flames hurt wherever they are forged and baptised from.

The furious doctor has not slept for eleven Iraqi nights

he is shaking so violently yetgently injects Shoab and

tonight in penicillin dreams Shoab may walk again, walk

to his Mother and see a red scarf leave her mouth

and strike her down where she tucked him in.

It is time to look for Pokemon in wartime.

For three seconds the woman soldier opens fire.

She is a woman soldier and last night was a mere child.

For three minutes her Father was a florist of wounds and cyclamen

laid it on her grave, her womanly bones. All they found was a monster.

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