by Sonya Taaffe
I fell asleep in the sky and woke at a quarter to Armistice with a tongue thick as poppies and a head that never heard of reveille, smashed as a bullet, spent as a watch, a sleepy-eyed sharpshooter saluting the cast-off confetti of the big parade. I drank and dreamed, dreamed of drinking while the martinis went round at Claridge's and the bulls at the Praça de Touros and the girl who ran faster in red shoes swung past me like an eccentric planet I could not remember the night without. I stopped dreaming when I found the gun in my hands and no one's watch chiming to wake me at twenty thousand feet, the enemy crumpling far beneath me and the wind in my ears screaming like a crowd and I was cold, clear-headed, steady and regret-free, leaving the way clear for my comrades as I disappeared into the dark.
May 22nd, 2016