Daniela Oana - Poet and Photographer

The Olive Branch

 

Sitting crammed along the wall

Hearing the propellers whirr

Holding our gear on our knees

While some men muster a laugh

And others sweat, staring down.

 

Our polished boots in neat rows

Start to shuffle upon orders

Facing the playground below

Of battleships and bombshells

Fearing the giant child at play.

 

The captain’s shouting started - 

The opened door sucking us out -

Two by two we jump unready

Too much for the eyes and eardrums

To stay focused on our mission.

 

In the silence of my downfall

I wonder why the birds migrate

But when they start to explode

I am brought back to the chaos:

They are Hawkers striking back.

 

The sea below is getting shot at

By heavy downpours of bullets.

I could hop from deck to deck

But my assigned target is land

On a torn map I can’t read.

 

There are others I find hunched

Towards whom I shoot my way

We reload and relocate

Waiting tightly for the signal

Puffing on French cigarettes.

 

When the ground suddenly shakes -

As to giant stumping feet -

A show of grenades erupts

Like fireworks around a stadium

Earth mounds thumping our helmets.

 

Two twenty in the morning

Even the chaos has tired

But the child won’t sleep tonight.

Five eleven, when he shoots me

Just as doves soar on Omaha.

 

My feeble eyes still don’t see birds.