Rifle

I've kept a bullet in the breechfor three months now—since the endof November, when the first snow fell.Out here, on the firebase, no one checksif I've cleared my weapon,so I keep the same round chambered:just flip the selector switch from safeto semi and pull the trigger to fire.

At night, alone in my room, I siton the edge of my cot,and look down the black pitof the barrel, scrape from the flashsuppressor any dirt with the fleshof my fingertip, put it in my mouthand suck the grit from the groovesand ridges of my skin, then spit it out.Before sleep, I lean my rifleagainst the wall near my head,keep it always only an arm's length away.

I dream of standing in a dark chamber, thickwith the smell of lilies and gun oil.Somewhere from the blackcomes clicking. I wake to black.

From the other room I hear the metalof the heater ticking as it expands,its turbulent rumblings as the windblows down the pipe to mix with fire.The dark, complete, keeps mefrom knowing that I've opened my eyes.