The River of Life

This stinking creek bed

Is the sheltering of angels

Holding me

Among its bush and tangle

Of exposed tree roots.

I do my best

To look like everything

Around me.

  

River mud

Cakes my face

Arms and hands.

I settle among fallen leaves

Bones of long-dead fish

And small frogs.

And I wait.

They are coming

I know.

I hear their soft steps

Trying to not disturb

The jungle floor

Trying to not alert me.

But I smell them

Their cigarette breath

Their unwashed skin

They even carry with them

The slight smell

Of breakfast fish and rice.

So I wait.

I am one.

They are many.

If it comes to shooting

I cannot prevail.

I hug myself and press hard

Into the soft mud.

I restrict myself

To shallow breaths

Fearful my own breathing

Will betray me.

Tucking my .45 into my chest

I thumb off the safety.

I think of the destroyed sanctuary

Of my Phantom.

They are closer.

One says something

And another softly laughs.

An officer quiets them.

They are close.

I shut my eyes

Squeezing the lids down hard

An unconscious denial of what is coming.

Their bayonets prod the brush.

I want to become the river bank.

I stop breathing

Holding out as long as possible.

They and I have one common goal.

We both want my heart to stop beating.

But they want it more than I.

  

I think of my wife and kids

Safely home

Sleeping in warm beds.

I think only of them.

I hope this is the River of Life.