War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

To the Boys of LAV Bravo Coy. 1 Alpha (2)

This morning, newspaper photograph, page A12,
under coffee rings, crumbs of burnt toast,
Soldiers from the Régiment, practicing Afghanistan
somewhere south, snowless and stinking,
in hot swamps. Northern mosquito men.

At Wainwright, last October, your OC,
33 year old Major, smoked the tent blue,
tethered to orders on a laptop, all he wanted
was to helmet up, hit dirt, the field, command
leaguers and convoys, as you boys fiddled and twitched,
nailed to seats in the LAV, waiting, waiting,
meditating like feral cats— your babies’ portraits folded
into field notes, little prayer cards wanting
Papa, le soldat, to come home.

And here you are, black and white,
gas-masked, rifles cocked for fight,
almost alive on my January table,
one month left until you catch your Hercules
to Camp I-Can’t-Tell-You-Where-It-Is ,
then zig-zag into KAF; I fear for you
now, as I feared then, tinned up for hours
with your smoke and boredom—
a slap is still a slap, your Warrant warned—
believe him infantrymen preparing for war,
though you may be fully mechanized.
Though you think you’re ready.

About This Page

The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled To the Boys of LAV Bravo Coy. 1 Alpha (2). It was posted here on January 15, 2009.


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