My Foxhole
by
Gene L. Gillette
(Copyright: Gene L. Gillette)
Courtesy of BostonPoet.com
Fresh wounds, decomposing flesh and body parts.
Musty rations, vomit, excrement and one’s own
unwashed body odor mix with searing jungle heat.
Nostrils burn and clog.
Limited sight, from a hellish thousand legged centipede
to six feet into the jungle, crawling with much more
than foxhole insects. Laying next to me, my newly dead best friend.
His youth forever wasted.
Men scream as searing ballistics rip through
bodies god meant for love, not war.
Battles explode upon us like earthquakes,
then disappear, leaving a silence that one’s own heartbeat
pounds and pounds and pounds.
Alone, I touch the foxhole dirt to find reality.
In disbelief, my fingers gently probe my dead friend’s chest,
his Saint Christopher resting lightly on my hand.
Before I go insane, I touch myself, sweet flesh of Miriam.
.
Swallowing abnormal fear saliva
and sucking an open wound
mixes a sweat, saliva and blood cocktail.
This hell is my universe, my reality.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
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