War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

third tour (sapper)

your desert boots are broken
in by ’06, ’08, laying charges
defusing poppies, chasing IEDs,
their leather ghee’d by Afghan sun,
they are sole-less
foot-casings, more glove than shoe,
“my good luck ones,” you say,
at WWx in the CP, it’s late May;
we stink, swelter hours, days,
weeks, without showers,
water only to drink,
(until Angel of the mod tents
swoops down upon us
with 2 250 ml bottles
for birdbath, babywipe routines).

big man, soldier, 6 ’4, shaved head,
your left leg shudders, shakes
like the trunk of some great tree
under siege by hungry grizzlies,
when you talk abouty two tours overseas,
“fuck, why worry? I won’t feel a thing,” you say
(when I ask about wires,
explosives on the road that rings
Afghanistan,
the heavy load of 24/7
kablooey to kingdom come),
“unless my shoemaker can’t resole
these little babies,”
(laced right over left every time),
“before I deploy for tour #3, my last one”.




CP – Command Post
WWx – Wainwright Exercise (dress rehearsal for Afghanistan)


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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled third tour (sapper). It was posted here on September 20, 2009.

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