My circular field of vision contains hundreds of flickering black specks, only unlike those televisions from the 90’s, whose screens flicker white and black when not set to the right channel,  the white is a deep, dark green, and I’m able to make out objects only by a vivid contrast of black blobs against crackling green dots.  The sweat collects upon our foreheads and slowly makes its way down the sides of our faces, sometimes ending in a salty swipe of the tongue. I pass him and contemplate a “fuck you,” but decide to be serious for once. We make it 100 meters down the hill of which he lay, carefully measuring our steps in silence, gradually increasing the size of the objects in the distance. There’s a flash in the sky, then a peal in the distance, followed by another crack seconds later. We fall on our bellies and look around, and the seconds grind against our ribcages until we hear the sounds of what should be courteousness being replaced with pleading. At first the flash appeared on the horizon, originating much the same as a rising sun. My belly then wrenched as the pleading noise shook me out of my shock, making me realize our small group was turning around and running back up the hill, recalling those grueling runs up Monte Berico, which rewarded us with a breathtaking view of Vicenza. A friend of mine lost 40 pounds from that run, not immediately, but from a persistent nagging that if only he was faster, they’d be alive. We get to the top and I see him, a dark green object slumped against a moving dark green object, who is whispering “stay with me.” We keep moving toward the screams, and I see dark splatters everywhere. There’s one more flash, and the rest is where awards are won, but not worth mentioning.

I tell myself we’re all okay, and he taps me on the shoulder, whispering the names. I nod my head, and when he walks away, my eyes well and coyotes begin to circle meters in front of me around the dark, lumpy object.  My spine explodes with shivers, and this is the first time I notice how soaked I am from sweat. Shivering from the cold, I ask myself how I can care about being cold at such a moment, and the last things I’d said to these lumps.

Ten hours later, our small group is still on that hill, and the village is wide awake, in full force. I’m sitting at the peak of the hill, with Espinoza at my side, and say, “We’re gonna get fucking shot sitting here.” 2 seconds later I feel that first snap crack past my face, and we still talk of that moment to this day. They told us not to look at the bodies, but we stared at those souls who’d we’d grown to love more than family, our hearts plunging into that deep abysmal rift which manages to eventually slice through our innocence at one point of our lives, entrenching solidly and forming a sturdy foundation. Three days in is too short of time to pray for a year to end quickly.

We sat on the curb at 3 a.m., drunk and having taken a few Ambien’s for shits and giggles. He says he’s glad to have met me, that I was different than most. We talked about learning Italian for when we came back. He had one of those yellow how-to-guides-for-dummies and asked me what real love was like. What he’d noticed was that kernel I promised myself a year before, that I was here from being homeless and broke, and that I’d always maintain who I was, rather than become a robot. We walked the green mile many times together, sometimes having to drag one another after puking in the middle of the road. This moment on the curb replays every day as I remember that lump against the dark green, and when the sun rose, that gruesome spectacle of humanity at its worst spread across the sand. I remember those moments just days before, our stomachs uneasy and nervous, and his beautiful, sly smile as he jumps around, speaking only in those sporadic moments, in rapid bursts, curious and eager to find true love.

I’d started reading Cummings a few months afterward, and can’t begin to describe the beauty and truth in which poetry unfurled for me. I’d written bodies after this epiphany, and understood Bukowski’s sarcastic remark that anybody can write. It’s true, anybody who can write, can write poetry. It’s the poems that well from experience and tradition that resonate the strongest, whose words fertilize the awaiting buds of our understanding. I couldn’t write bodies again if I tried, and in that sentiment, lies the beauty in anything anyone writes. Whatever we choose to say, is probably worth sharing and says something about your life, whether conscious or not. Good writing isn’t interesting, writing that has the capacity to move the reader is worth reading; and whenever I attempt to read bodies, I’m reminded of that green hill, and of the memories which remain from those who ask about love, who exist in one moment, and leave empty beds the next.