Classic Poem

The black peak at Xuan Loc
pulls a red apron of light
up from the east.
105s and 155s are walking shells
toward us from Bear Cat
down some trail
washing a trail in fire.

An eagle flight snakes west toward Lai Khe,
a demonstration of lights
flashing green and red across a sky still black above.
Our boots rattle off the boardwalk
Cha-Chat-Cha-Chat
the sound spills across the helipad
out towards the forest
out towards the dawn;
it chases devil dusters
out to the jungle.

The boardwalk bends
with our ungainly walk
litter handles creak
with the heavy weight of the dead,
the dull whoosh and thud of B-40s
sounds south along the berm
the quick flat answer of 16s follows.

Gunships are going up
sucking devil dusters into the air.
We can see them through the morgue door
against the red froth clouds
hanging over Xuan Loc.
We lift the boy into a death bag.
We lift the boy into the racks.
We are building a bunker of dead.
We are stacking the dead for protection.

This dead boy is on my hands
My thighs are wet with the vomit of death
His blood is on my mouth
My mouth My mouth tastes his blood.

The gunships are firing over the Dong Nai
throwing fire into the river
clouds are coming in from the sea
I can smell the rain, see it
over Xuan Loc, over me
it is monsoon at last.