A History Teacher

September.
I wake up in the rain, on green ground
to choke up anachronisms, head spinning 'round
And sit up. Nicholas stands over me,
hand outstretched to help me up.
I turn my head.
A dragon dry-coughs beside me and
flicks his tail in the dust.

The king teaches me things,
the dragon, others.
The first catches my attention:
his smile is formed of bristles,
and his blue eyes are wide.
Cixi, meanwhile, stands in long grass.

We make camp in antiquity.
Hesitantly:
Charles is lurking behind trees,
hair groomed too far back.
I take refuge in the part
that has yet to grow up
and meet Louis at the base
of a mossy old trunk.

October brings rain; our front lines start to move back.

November, I am stuck,
plucked alive from the wire
Charles has tumbled to fire
Louis and Cixi to dust –
I am left with December
till the year ends, abrupt.
And all Cixi's warnings have
dried up in her mouth.

Still none of my lovers
rise up from the rust.
And so I curl up
to wait for the tide –

But Nicholas is thick and deep under lime
grey mouth open and blue eyes wide