The women climbed
out of the valley, their loose white clothing swollen
by January wind, climbed
up to where I sat alone on the frozen ground
minding that stupid radio, listening
to the river rushing in the headset, 106’s
firing idiotically over the knoll, came
to collect wood and cardboard from the ammo boxes
built a fire
encircled it, squatting & turning, one
after the other their brown faces, giggling & waving at me
to come over & get warm, yes, not too far from the DMZ
those women squeezed me in, teased me in
amongst them,
around that fire on that empty freezing hill
talking a language I couldn’t understand
our warmth translating every word.
Copyright © SF 1975 Gene Berson
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