Fireblass blink
on Bien Hoa airstrip.
My bladder aches and I’m afraid,
but the Swedish girls says, “Stay put;
the seat belt sign is on,”
and pokes out the overhead light.
I can smell her mix
of tension and perfume,
feel the splash of woman hair
against my face
one last time.
We circle, descend, circle,
then it’s morning,
then it’s real
MP’s rout us
off the Northwest Orient
into a furnace
of burning shit and JP4.
“Run, run,” they shout,
“Run, run. You’ll miss the bus.
You’ll miss the bus to Long Bien.”
Mama-sans,
heads wrapped in old cloth,
lean against wooden posts and yawn.
One drags a broom
In front of the banner,
WELCOME TO IV COPRS,
and turns to look
but I look away.
I didn’t know death
had such lively eyes.