literature

Timpani Fist

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Literature Text

Feel nothing for weeks until, abruptly, the cold war snaps --
now my skull is brimming full with heavy stones,
chest cavity jumping hard against the grip of a familiar timpani fist
and these echoes don't know the meaning of de-escalation;
my commanding officers never held a pen to any sort of convention,
Geneva or otherwise.

I'm terrified when allied eyes patrol the border of my expressions --
I hold my breath, coil up tight against the foxhole chambers of my heart
and beg my brain for ceasefire;
it tells me there's no moratorium for the rippling of this aftermath
and, try as I might, I'm afraid I'll never truly expatriate
because the borders before me are made up
of my own pumping blood.
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