War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

who who who are you?

it’s not their hoar-frost beards, it’s the black hole bargain
they’ve made with their gods and their skin;

two nights two days in a fresh-mortared cell
I never knew his name nor where he was from

in for replen from the mountains, the sand,
skinny, worn as an Afghan hell dog

ancient 26
3/4’s dead, no, 9/10th’s

alone, stretched out on our cots, we talked
away from his recruits,

“I hate what this country has made me become”

but at 2 a.m. jack-in-a-box out the window
with AK, terp, and pup of a boy kitted up

I couldn’t sleep knowing I’d have to tell the young pup’s dad,
“I saw his last hour”

430 am, weapons propped, men sliding into sleeping bags
I knew the boy wasn’t dead, I fell asleep

the dusty bird came for me that afternoon;
before I left, old man slipped me a note

here’s her name. where you’ll find her.
tell my mom you’ve seen me. say I’m well.

I hunted her down for weeks. left messages in a cafe middle place.
finally RV’d. “he’s good. he’s great” I lied.

“he’s a good boy a good boy. he’s a good son,”
she replied, “isn’t he?”

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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled who who who are you?. It was posted here on December 02, 2010.


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