DAISY ZAMORA

It Was A Ragged Squadron

September 1978

No one wanted to cross that burnt field.

([hose silver ashes with a red spark or two from the final embers.)

You went out first and your body looked dark against the white.

Hidden in the brush, we others waited

until you made it to the other side,

then followed you.

I remember it in slow motion:

the sloping terrain, slippery and hot,

your hand around your weapon,

the stench of fire. The sound the propellers made,

sporadic bursts of gunfire.

Your boots sank into the pliant earth

and you raised a whitish mist at every step.

(Time must have slowed down for us.)

Dionisio, all the comrades watched you,

our hearts beating uselessly

beneath the full moon.

Translated by Margaret Randall