BLACK CREEK
We stopped beside an inky creek not seen
except for icy moonshine gleam on warm rock-ripples.
The six of us sat, uncaring of the wet earth,
backs against trees,
weapons in slimy hands.
I felt the sweat run down my chest
to pool in the belly crease above my waist.
The air was hot;
scratched with tree-top night crying.
I pulled out a soggy pack
and offered it to the dark shape at my side
No thanks, he whispered,
smoking'll kill you.
Then, Oh hell, why not?
I lit his cigarette,
the flare lighting his face
like a demon.
A wet thud
as a small black hole appeared in his forehead
and his head rocked back against the tree
then lolled onto his shoulder.
And his eyes stared at mine for a moment,
then he left.