One night

The moon is a moue of silvery gloss

above the remains of the camp;
no sounds of footsteps, they’re muffled by grass
and I’ve put out the single lamp.

 

He presses together my palm and thumb

and gently tugs off my bracelet;
unbuckles his holster, but still the gun
is left where it’s easy to get.

 

A pebble’s sharp under bare shoulder blade

it slices flesh open - love hurts;
the air aches in darkness and wrings the shade;
the barrel’s too close for comfort.

 

The day comes awake, he’s already gone -

the grass is flattened where he’s slept,
disturbed earth shows where the holster was thrown
and a deep mark where the gun was kept.

 

He rides somewhere with the gun at his belt

and my fears here weave talismans;
but victory and glory can’t be compelled,
nor peace at the point of a gun.