In the Wheat Field
“It's your rabbit,” the officer told the soldier who pointed his rifle at the fleeing enemy child. The child was quick in the wheat, so it took three shots before he tumbled into the afterlife. Many years later I put down my book about the war and walk under the oaks' black branches to where the snow has capped all the cars in the elementary school parking lot. The rooftops glitter meanly. I have never killed anything and look at me. I am like the boss of hell. In the silent movie, the moon took a rocket to the face and never stopped smiling. Tonight its ashes scatter over the rooftops. No, snow. Of all the people he murdered, that soldier could not forget how the child swayed a moment in the wheat before disappearing under the sea of it. I once found a bullet casing right here on this sidewalk and, not far from it, a stain. How could I not imagine the rest of that story? The cars grow cool and dire in the parking lot, and the sodium lights hum like enormous insects. The soldier wrote a whole book about what he had done, but it didn't help. Come on and snow all over me, come on and shower me with ash. The sky is bone. The moon is a hole in somebody's skull.