by Michael A. Maggiotto
A timpani pounds in my chest,
suffocating the command; eyes
shut on darkness see green shirts oozing
salsa crumple to the paddy mud; ears
deaf to the rustle of sycamores hear
hissing shells and sucking gurgles; fingers
numb to the sheets that cover me tighten
web tourniquets above severed limbs;
I breathe a morning dew of napalm's
char until I stand with them again
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