War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

night terror

diesel fumes. hard metal. I’d clung to the gunner’s turret all day across my land. watching starbursts. watching pronghorns get the hell out of there as formations of the rifle company rocked and set the hills on fire. scorched the sun with live ammo. machine gun chains. the canons.

somewhere in the field. cold night. sky. we slept in tents. the boys of HQ car set mine next to theirs, next to Mother LAV. next to radio. next to weapons. on the hard prairie that June the boys were all still alive.

rations lay like an iron anchor in my stomach. all night I couldn’t rest. just trudged and dragged that anchor in and out of muddy half-sleep. sigs snored.

0400 hrs just me and the owls. then from a tent a cry. someone’s remembering how to die. someone who studied it up close in ’06. somewhere near the white schoolhouse.
I unzip my tent. puke and puke. into my boots. into my socks. so damned sick I can’t move.

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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled night terror. It was posted here on June 27, 2012.


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