The Female of Flanders

A Poem by aj Foxley

After reading John MacRae, and some Dylan Thomas.

last mag, last round, bolt locked to the rear,
running for my life, lungs burning with fear.
the world is dead white, no sound in the air,
Fire and hate and loathing everywhere.
Out the window, down the street.
can't look back, move your feet.
Find a spot to hide, maybe catch my breath,
breathe real quiet, or catch your death.
hug your knees, close your eyes,
make no sound, hope they pass you by.
a whisper, a smile, an old lady appears.
dusty, dirty, and without fear.
"your boot, young man, give it to me."
"For us to survive, to walk out alive, a plan, you see."
A muddy boot presented to a calm and collected queen,
She quickly disassembles the laces, the tongue, then smiles at me.
"Just a moment", she whispers, and begins to construct
my attention is caught, a glimmer of hope, of luck.
my laces, the tongue, a rock she aquired,
and the boot became a sling that fired.
unknown to me, but known to her eyes,
an enemy presented, with rifle of no small size.
the rock spun sounding like a hateful bee,
intercepting our interloper right in the chin.
"HAVE AT THEM, YOUNG MAN!" She yells.
"HAVE AT HIS TOOLS, AND SEND THEM TO HELL!"
I spring over the counter, and tear the gun from his chest.
rack and shoulder, aim and depress.
a flurry of shots, and a host of returns,
until all that remains, me and the old woman.
a tune on her lips, she picks up a pistol.
checks it and holds it in a way that seems capable.
She whistles and walks, leading the way,
I cover her six, we walk into day.