Life During Wartime By Keith Pearson

“Scientists have used video cameras to show how locusts’ wings change shape during flight…”

Francesca is writing songs again about the war down the road no one else can see. She believes the world is a roomful of old deaf men.

She sits on the marble bench in the center of her spare room and peels off the t-shirt marked with government slogans to show you the scar that runs down the center of her chest, a thick purple worm like the border of two countries that refuse to speak.

You bend to drink from the fountain of her breast but she turns away and curls upon the cool marble, arms crossed and her knees drawn up, her skin pale with dust like the piece of sculpture in that postcard from Rome.

With a sigh she rolls to her back and parts her thighs but instead you are captured by the sounds outside the window and leave her to press your cheek to the cold glass.

Cannons in the hills have fired without aim into the valley and the tall trees and the water tower are afire.

From along the ridge comes the echo of the cry of ghosts, soldiers in line with swords drawn raised and ready, their faces streaked with dirt and the lime thrown into their graves.

They await the command to charge from some fearless and unforgiving 

keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.