1 74 THE MISSOURI REVIEW • SPRING 2019
Even our eyelids sweat.
We are still, and I am nodding off
under the weight of my helmet.
We swallow Sudafed to stay awake.
In the sky I see Orion,
his bow drawn tight.
Through my night vision
the earth is a green moon.
On the roof, a woman smokes.
No one speaks. No one moves.
But we are gasping for air.
I haven’t had clean socks in weeks.
Bedbugs infest my sleeping roll.
We brush our teeth with peroxide
from Doc’s stash. I don’t remember
what it’s like to make love.
To mow my lawn. To sleep.
Men in cotton robes leave the house.
Our grips tighten in the heat.
The moon is 238,900 miles away.
The center star in Orion’s belt blinks twice.
after Doug Anderson