RAINDROP

I hold on by day, but in the night

when lonely shepherds tend their flocks

bending low from arching lights

under an iron sky, the blackness

criss-crossed with prayers,

laced with phosphorous tracer

and laden with soldiers metal, I listen

to mosquitoes choosing their moment.

The sirens begin to wail but I am dead

until a single raindrop on my forehead

washes over me, your hand on my skin

a teardrop.