War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

out there

they slaughtered the old ewe
hours before my Chinook landed
out there on the village lip,
its throat slit (by a gruesomely dull knife)
for the week’s shura, there was no blood
in the dust, the rusty knife wiped clean;
I unvelcroed my frag vest, undid my helmet,
sat down on a picnic bench
to plates of warm naan,cold mutton,
cans of Coke to wash it down
me and the Major ate
and laughed in the middle
of the war zone.


About This Page

The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled out there. It was posted here on June 18, 2010.

·

Complete diary archive