Water from a spigot
screwed to the belly
of a 250-pound bombshell
has the sound
of mama-sans chattering,
dunking fatigues in plastic pans.
Nothing I have said
will make them go,
and I don’t care now.
I lost my privacy
at Ft. Carson , Colorado .
I ignore their giggles,
try to get wet enough
to foam off
rice paddy sludge,
insect repellent,
chocolate bar,
dust on mud,
the captain saying,
“Last night’s ambush
was a real success, men:
two dead,
three AK-47’s,
five Chicom grenades,
knapsacks with maps.”
Bodies punctured
by claymore mines.
I was there,
I wasn’t there,
I don’t know.
The early morning heat,
splashing water,
women’s voices,
say I wasn’t there,
say I’m dreaming
on a sun porch
of a frame house
in a Missouri thunderstorm.
I haven’t seen my body
in six days, maybe ten.
Ivory soap sliding
off my chest
says I wasn’t there.
White body, brown face,
ghostself with dirt in my nails,
image on Time Magazine, CBS,
I bathe
in the laughter of maidens,
bombwater,
soap my hands,
my scalp,
my neck,
my legs,
my hips,
my gun almighty,
See, mama, all clean,
parts still connected.
Wake me now and say
I’m already late for school.