By David Coppin Lanegan
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Depiction of war/fighting
It was cold.
We were to fight the horde that day,
and I came to him at dawn.
He shivered and cried,
his hair was all down in his face.
I gave him the black band that kept my brow clear,
and the red spilled about my cheekbones as I kissed him.
-
Through the spears and
the hail of arrows, his jaw was set
and his blond beard bloody.
He hacked a dervish,
his eyes shone for me.
There were so many,
and I could not see the blades that cut me.
David Coppin Lanegan is a musician and writer living in rural Washington state. He has previously been published in Heartworm Press’ Heartworm Reader No. 2, in Kinship, a Quaranzine, and on his Substack blog, Jawbone. He is an interview editor for Paper Crane Literary Journal, and a reader for American Youth Literary Journal. His band is called Wavesons, their record, (croatia), can be found everywhere.
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