I am traveling down
The narrow road, past
Checkpoint 201; halfway there
I think, running the gauntlet we call
IED alley. The landscape is as it was
The same day after day, with the
Exception of new trash and fresh
Holes here and there from the
Previous day’s attacks. My rifle, warmed by
The midday sun is in my hands as
I catch a whiff of baking bread
It is sourdough-sweet in my nostrils before we
Crest the hill and raw shit from stagnant
Water in that trench spoils my momentary
Reprieve. ‘Almost to checkpoint 301’ I say
Looking forward to being out
Of the city limits. It’s usually safer there
I stand a little higher in my hatch, confident
As the blast erupts and rips through me like
A punch from a fist of fire from a steel wrist
I need to key the radio mic to call this up
But my left hand fails to answer me – I look
The arm, it is not there; just strands of flesh
And bright red blood on a tattered uniform
And I open my eyes, my heart racing
I feel the pain! But it is dark now, and cold
I can’t be dead… no. I’ve slept on my side
And my arm went numb again
I roll over and try to go back to sleep
Wondering what side must I sleep on
To flip the tide
And make the dreams go numb instead.
Reblogged this on The Word on the Street Corner.
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