I know the secret hemispheres of
snow, the turns you take on the road

to the explosives range in the dark.
Miles from our yard morning breaks;
you're prepping the day's fourth shot.
Ice melts from the hollowed chestnut,

white in my mouth, white its thorn
of frost. Stained gray with powder,
you crimp a blasting cap, jam it
inside the Claymore mine. The snow-

pack collapses: 700 steel ball-bearings
shattered across the turf. A hawk
sputters overhead, noisy-winged
machine patrolling the smoke-

stripped thickets. Half after three
the sky goes gray. Chill in the air
up my back as the shovel uncovers
a vole frozen on our lawn's south edge,

its eyes locked in shock, as if caught
in your blast's last path. I don't know
where the dead go, only that
you promise to make it home

by supper, the hem of your pants
singed with ash. Down on your knees
surveying the ground - asphalt four feet
deep blasted into parts - you note where

damage takes its greatest toll. In another field,
I dig a cold damp hole. Ice snuffs
the maples, my agitated heart.