War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

At the Brigade Dinner

Soldier leans across the table laid with linen,
his dress jacket, red and gold, a desert rose;
He jokes, write a poem about me as a Jedi knight.
I laugh. Silver candelabras bleed white wax.
I met him last October at Shilo. On Ex.
His legs lasered ground. No smile, no joke,
no can of pop, no smoke—6’4 of CADPAT,
frag vest, helmet, ballistic glasses. Field book.
At dawn, his LAV headed for the ranges
past black birds bouncing on scrub willows,
under hawks circling the dead corn fields.
The prairie moon empty as our dinner plates.
From his turret he crooked a gloved hand, waved once,
his LAV unfurled long capes of dust as he led on.

About This Page

The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled At the Brigade Dinner. It was posted here on February 08, 2009.


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