Army

We wander between bodies, exposed marrow,  
the narrow overlap of skin and sunken down faces,  
hand on weaponry as if it's been sleeping,  
I savour the howl lodged in my throat.  
 
"The North," she whispers, curve of the table,  
blonde hair, eyes of ice
hours later.
"It's never the North,  
not really," mostly  
an utterance,  
a quivered echo,  
something my Father told me once.  
"It's always more blended,  
an envy folded in,  
and then the other trying  
to accept life as is,  
muddle through,  
as if almost blind -  
it's fallen over the edge  
of reasonable,  
this mountain has been painted  
dark reds and blue.  
We need to counter."  
 
Our silence had solidified,  
left too long  
to become unremarkable.  
A shadow no longer shielded land.  
I could see their faces,  
fire and light  
but myths,  
the harrowing weight  
that our table,  
this hierachy  
would make decisions  
that could either protect  
or further erode  
what was left  
in the warrior's wake.  
Simple indifference --  
no longer sweet,  
rotted at the pith,  
would cause us to be wiped  
entirely from the map.  
I pored the loose papers,  
scattered, interlaced,  
repositioned grace,  
traded for violence,
made a fist  
of my empathy.  
 
"I suppose the only way is up."