We made tunnels beneath the trenches
convenience saddles convenience.
Innovations bound to conflicting desires,
duty ever at the throat of survival;
a war all its own.

Dead sounds, all around
digging impatiently
stopping only briefly to hear
past the heavy breathing
the tremors from outside and within
beyond the fear; listening
for digging.

Somewhere down here
another crew exists
just like our own;
different uniforms
but always like us,
digging, listening.

I can’t help but hope
are they as afraid as we?
will their resolve snap
like a taught frayed rope?
I echo the answer known.

Either way we wind up here
on our backs, peacefully
or on our feet, terrified and blind
holding a thread bare hope
that they aren’t like us.

Listening,
I hear rhythmic pounding
muffled by earth
geography, culture, language
until it stops…
listening
for us, for me-
this translates easily.

We start again in unison
clawing at the earth feverishly
to end this,
to put it behind or above us
stopping only for a hint of a moment.
every few feet we calibrate on the other.

The dirt between us feels lighter now
easier to swallow
forgiving where we cannot be.
The tension between us is metaphysical.
Two fingers almost touching
between sandcastle walls.
It is ocean waves grasping at the shore
hidden depths haunting the water’s surface.

When our pickaxe breaks through
there is a moment of metallic harmony
a crashing of symbols.
Sparks fly like a flash of summer light in the dark
the perfect place to meet.

The tunnels are too small to stand in
too dark to see
too cramped to breathe,
it is struggle enough to kill another
but this close to hell
beneath the war
it is all the world’s anxiety, despair, and cruelty
rabid; unleashed. Some die. Some go on digging.
all remain buried.