That night in his camp the moon revealed
what would become of his body after dying
All those things he tried to hide
would be made known:
molar grimace,
dark hollow of his loins,
the face of a beaten boy
drooping to both sides,
flesh let go of scars
The belly he grew after the war
would no longer sag sadly over a belt buckle,
the ragged heart under his ribs would be
shriveled and black,
the fragment of a wing long lost in his brain
would swing brittle on a cobweb inside his skull
He’d fear neither evil nor the clock’s late hand,
a lopsided gait nor a woman’s farewell
He lay under the power of the moon
wrapped in a sleeping bag,
seeing those things as in an x-ray,
sure he’d been awake all night
When he looked skyward and saw the sun
dazzling the frozen lake,
the fire long cold,
he felt a dusting of new snow
dripping on his forehead
from a last lock of hair