Another bizarre moment
the shattered Iraqi men
around the prison ward
in shambling dance
with a transported
smile on your sweet bronze face
lip-synching your favorite
the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive”.
The Man in the Wound
Quiet the ward, quiet the dressing-cart now,
quiet the morphine drip, blessed easer of pain—
turning his head as I pass, he says, Hi, Doc,
asks if I’m working too hard—I look beat—overstrained.
His wound came at Nasiriyah, and I was not there
to shield him from rounds and flame, being safe in the rear;
yet his thought is always of me, the nurse or the friend,
or even the enemy soldier he glimpses or hears.
With arms laid waste, he finds no reason to hate;
his comrades now are all who grieved and withstood:
just as the wound proclaims the hell all have made,
the man in the wound is raised—shown peaceful and good.