Barbed

Barbed brick holds up the sky,
About as inviting as a rat.
Grey and hard, it lacks a rat’s 
Softness and yet, we placed
A welcome mat over the threshold.

Each day we were trooped into the clustered
Firs and pines, stalwart and cold,
Indignantly spitting bark in our faces
As we wrestled them to the ground.

We called this our job,
And returned to hard bunks
And called it home. A pale caricature
Of normality.

Winter fell on us, not in great flurries,
But more subtle, granting us a dragon’s breath,
And stiff red fingers.
A cherry nose blossomed on my brother’s face,
It contrasted horribly with the peachy fuzz
Over his top lip.

New Years Day and his lips were blue.
That evening he slept with the great firs,
And became deathly brittle in the night.