Just One More was written in response to Wilfred Owen’s Last Laugh and my poem follows an unnamed woman who gets drunk one night as she can’t get over the death of her childhood friend.
“O fuck! I’m hit”, she said; and passed out.
Whether she meant it, or said it in passing,
Mr Gordon released his chute – closed fist,
open open! The hyenas cackled, and the
She came too. “Help! Mom! Dad! Johnny!”
she roared. That was her childhood friend.
Like a brother. Three years her junior, the
dead soldier who’d sooner desert the flag
than defend civil conflicts over sand and oil.
“My friend!” she yelled. Dismally-drunk was her
temperament. Till cradled, was her chin in thin
shells, like her own, but not. Mrs Mother groaned,
holding her child’s tired, exhausted face, and the