The Marine Who Never
Saw Combat
Sleeping Next to the Combat Veteran
I didn't belly in bloodied sleet
or treacheries of tall burning grass;
wasn't me hung on a sniper's cross
or bit by bamboo fangs slicked
in dung. Searing blossoms of scarlet
barrages fell, sergeants raved, but
still I could not be found.
I lay safe in barracks of nights sapped
by cockroaches and lizards as a squad
leader's dreams from the next bunk
slithered onto my eyelids, into my ears
and nostrils, ripe with cordite and corpses.
His malarial voice calls out in his sleep:
Sir!
AMEJKA . ANDERSON. BAKER.
BAYLES. CARTER. COLE. DAVIDENKO.
GREENSPAN. HARDING. HASENFLUG.
HELM. KOHLAND. LYTLE. MCMORROW.
MILLER. OWENS. RITCH. TIMMS.
Tagged, bagged and stacked!
How long, how many wars since,
and I hear him still calling roll,
still chanting names, counting long
vinyl bags, offering up dog tags,
shiny chains spilling from his fist,
knotted and lashed around his wrist.