by

Robert H. Dirr Jr.

I:
A bullet-punctured femoral artery douses me with blood.
I strain to tie the slippery hose in a knot, but a sandal
Kicks my shoulder, grounding me beside my friend. I look up�
To see a bayonet aimed at my chest, as the friend fires
His M-16: a slow motion fireworks display where once was a head.

II:
My platoon is sweeping through another village when shots
Are fired at us. Word comes to burn the vill, so I rid my
Pocket of the Zippo, and begin to torch the huts. I peer into the first one
And it is empty, so I ignite the thatched roof. Within minutes I can hear
Muffled crying of children, but it is too late...the hut is withering from
Flames. Later, under a trap door, I find three dead babies.

III:
I am paralyzed from the waist down, shuttled over a river in a motorized
Rowboat to a waiting chopper. Yellow water laps against the sides, as
I recognize a friend. He says hello to me, and dies. Mouth to mouth brings him
Back, but he is gone again. I pound upon his chest and curse at him
For not breathing, but he will never hear me. I am alone.

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