the ball turret gunner

she couldn't sleep.

guilt, shame, distress.
hunger.

worry, fear.
regret.

the list went on and on.
so she'd take

an ambien or two
with a glass of wine.

and out she'd go
into hibernation for eight
straight
hours,

curled in a defensive
position
beneath the blanket.

a clenched fist of a body,
arms wrapped
around her legs
and boney torso.

knit tight in her
self made womb,

not unlike the ball turret
gunner
in the belly of a B-52 bomber
over berlin.

finally still

and free from reality
and dreams.

almost dead, but not quite.