7 years of War

This year has been the bloodiest, deadliest year in Afghanistan, the number of enemies have grown by 30%. I watched 60 minutes last night. And was in shock, mouth dropped as if in awe. That it has been 7 years. Seven years of war. Where have I been, what have i been doing? I protested once in san fricisco with a bunch of hippies. I had been 18. I am now 25. I worry about my life, the price of gas, what poem I will bring to class tomorrow.

Artifacts of War


7 years

The Enemy: that which shoots at us,
bearded, blends into this desert better
than us, steals guns, and canteens
from us, aims cameras and grenades at us,
The Enemy, shoots at us, hides in the rocks,
hides in the fields, hides from us, young, dead heavy
we zip the enemy, that which aims and shoots at us,
into white plastic body bags, in death they surrender
to us, their dusty faces, their breath, their guns,
their chewing gum, The Enemy, shoots at us,
well-trained shadow, climbs these mountains,
twitch in the noon sun, quiet as the sand
lifted by the wind, stings and blinds and aims,
The Enemy: that which shoots at us.


Unknown number of years

Someday the ghost will return to their bodies.
They have not counted in days or years or candy bars,
lost in the counting
of pennies, nickels and dimes, lucky quarter, luckier dollar bill.
Guns shots, grenades dropped, hum of traffic,
and desert wind echo in their skulls and vertebrae

Someday the drugged up Vets in baseball caps
And toothy smiles will never have been to Vietnam,
will not be as Old as my dad. And they will ask for
change, they will ask me how I have been, and I am afriad
I will have nothing to say.