Soldier’s Return
the young man in desert fatigues
quietly accepts thanks from
the mouths of grateful citizens
arrayed in defensive positions
against exploding spit
and phantom missiles from
reporters missing in action.
the young man in desert fatigues
quietly walks through the airport.
he looks at no one applauding him
in spurts of ovation, clean hands
clapping, that bear none of the red
terror he rubs off in his dreams
of heat and smoke and limbs burning
small arms like big arms
quivering in the street
at midday prayer.
These trophies few citizens
imagine in their grateful
awe and chest warming pride.
the young man in desert fatigues
quietly embraces his comrades
waiting at the gate in desert fatigues
less tired now to be in the company
of others like him who know
that despite the devotions of patriot believers,
what the monument will not say
rises from the blood sopped dust :
somebody killed those babies.
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