Tyre

Snow falls like propaganda leaflets dropped
from helicopters. Eighty years ago
we still had proper blizzards, and the ashes
hadn’t yet fully settled on the ruins
of Heinrich Heine’s hometown. Nowadays
I take what I can get: I revel in
a little sleet I know will melt by morning,
an Oscar-nominated period piece,
ice cubes in the refrigerator. “Hey,
you know that’s Tyre out there? Queen Dido’s birthplace?”
“Who?” “Never mind.” “Don’t talk, just shoot, all right?”
“OK, OK… I mean, yessir.” You told me
this story many times. Gunfire, you bragged,
lulled you to sleep; only the CO’s voice
could wake you, crackling on the radio.
You shaved your beard the day you were discharged.

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