Rounds

A soldier is standing in the darkness

Next to a door, next to a compound,

Holding his M4 close to his body like

A child, and it is

Because there is an insurgent inside,

And he tells himself

That all he has to do is wait to be told,

Now

Before he goes

Through the door,

Up the stairs, and

Around the corner

Into a room and the part of the story

That will cover him, that

He will wear like skin that no one sees,

And he can still see him standing there,

The insurgent, a man with a face and

Eyes and mouth and hands and how

The rounds leaving the man’s Kalashnikov

Cross over the rounds leaving his M4,

Making the shape of a letter of a word

In a sentence that

He will never repeat,

Not when he comes home, or

Stands in other rooms of other houses

In America,

With people he used to know, who ask,

What or what happened

As if they want to hear the answer.

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3 Responses to Rounds

  1. Soul Walker says:

    Very well written.

  2. MadamaAmbi says:

    Great poem. Thanks for your work and your service.

  3. lynnbukowski says:

    Powerful… as if they want to hear the answer.

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