Monday, July 17, 2006
5 am. The racket of the birds in the trees awakens me and I stare with content at the ceiling. My wife snores softly beside me.
The racket stills and I hear a soft pop, pop, pop.
A firefight, not ours, but not distant either.
I'm back in the jungle again, waiting in ambush, 18 and scared,
staring into darkness so deep that it hurts the eyes,
102 degrees and rain like pea gravel falls on my head.
Jungle rot eats away at my dick.
The pain is unbearable, but I remain frozen.
Something snaps and the H-man click, click, clicks the Claymores.
Blue and yellow muzzle flashes light the narrow path,
I scream but don't make a sound.
I can't hear the men dying.
Can hell be any worse than this?
"Daddy, daddy," my daughter cries. "You were screaming." The birds are singing again. "Everything's fine, sweetie," I say. "Come into bed with us. Everything is fine."