This poem is taken from Stand 214, 15(2) August - October 2017.

Hannah Copley Poem

Look. Here in the gunpit spoil
the dishonoured picture of his girl
who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht.
in a copybook gothic script.
             Keith Douglas, ‘Vergissmeinnicht’

The calibre of the bullet, if it had time to form the curve
from tank to man to sand and then to dust.

If the battle had a name, or if this was just a man on the road
meeting another man, walking the other way.

To see the small belongings, how close to the body are you?

These questions, her sex told her, were the right ones,
but before she could ask them
she would need to check and check again
the meaning of calibre, knowing that her exit wounds
would be the ones made by these fine points.

She wanted to know if this is what it truly meant
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