ECHO
The incoming mortar
falls with a wavering whisper,
growing louder - whirring,
now buzzing - insistent.
Men scramble, frantic, 
desperate for escape:
Run, Stumble, Fall! 
then...

FLASH, SLAM !
Dust leaps up,
smoke appears everywhere.
Staggering, numb,                        
still-living ears ring
as the echo roars 
away to the horizon.

Survivors, feeble, muffled,
check themselves 
for blood and missing limbs.

The Museum of History in Raleigh;
on display, a WWI helment 
with a shrapnel gash
across the brow.
An inch wide, four inches long. 
Punctured square on entry, 
the exit slash
peels steel back in curls
like long, metal shavings.

The others have moved on,
viewing looms and cotton gins;
but - I am frozen
on that helment,
and wonder if 
that doughboy lived.
My hands begin to shake,
I grasp the railing,
as an echo rolls away
toward the horizon.