The Missing Rib
He guided my hand
down the ladder of his ribs
until my index finger slid
into a valley, his flesh
bowing under my touch.
The rib had been yanked out
like a belt through loops
in a helicopter north
of Tikrit and boomeranged
to the desert floor.
His hand flashed open on mine
to press it hard into his chest
until my palm became an ear
listening for the thump
on the sand below.
War Games
The Marines have a girl somewhere, the whisper
circulates around the guard post at the roadblock.
Have her in a basement in the town where
they are billeted. They’ll let you have a go.
I watch the stars of headlights rotate
spokes in pixilated night vision then
double back, drive away. We wait—a girl--
there was a girl who sometimes brought
the Boatman food, her chin tucked deep to
her collarbone, never looking at me, a man
unknown to her. It could be that girl. You
going? Into town to have a go at a girl?
My boots grind the gravel up to the house
where the Marines stand, joking. They open
the door and let me walk alone to the basement
where she is, scuttled into a corner, naked
haunches up. I crouch and crawl over
the way you do with a cat, make
yourself smaller. But she doesn’t see me.
Her mouth is smeared with bruise. She is easy
to lift in a bundle, so small she tucks
in my jacket, somewhere in those bones
is a heart slowing. The Marines look
away, drag their guns in the gravel. Where
to take her? I want to walk with her
into the blank desert, make a bed for her
in that ridiculous boat, drag her with me
everywhere. I try my Arabic. Live? House?
Where? Father? Someone to take her
into that darkness. Finally a woman points
to a building near the minefield. I pass the girl
to her father. We whisper back and forth
as she sleeps without understanding. Our words
are freighters back and forth, hulls empty.
When I wake to shouting I run to the edge
of the minefield ringed in barbed wire
strung with warnings about landmines,
and there was the girl wandering on the field.
Someone holds me back as she turns and looks
at all of us, tucks her chin down and rips
the dress slowly from the collar to the hem—bones,
bruises, a bandage black with blood--
while singing so quietly we hear the click.
He guided my hand
down the ladder of his ribs
until my index finger slid
into a valley, his flesh
bowing under my touch.
The rib had been yanked out
like a belt through loops
in a helicopter north
of Tikrit and boomeranged
to the desert floor.
His hand flashed open on mine
to press it hard into his chest
until my palm became an ear
listening for the thump
on the sand below.
War Games
The Marines have a girl somewhere, the whisper
circulates around the guard post at the roadblock.
Have her in a basement in the town where
they are billeted. They’ll let you have a go.
I watch the stars of headlights rotate
spokes in pixilated night vision then
double back, drive away. We wait—a girl--
there was a girl who sometimes brought
the Boatman food, her chin tucked deep to
her collarbone, never looking at me, a man
unknown to her. It could be that girl. You
going? Into town to have a go at a girl?
My boots grind the gravel up to the house
where the Marines stand, joking. They open
the door and let me walk alone to the basement
where she is, scuttled into a corner, naked
haunches up. I crouch and crawl over
the way you do with a cat, make
yourself smaller. But she doesn’t see me.
Her mouth is smeared with bruise. She is easy
to lift in a bundle, so small she tucks
in my jacket, somewhere in those bones
is a heart slowing. The Marines look
away, drag their guns in the gravel. Where
to take her? I want to walk with her
into the blank desert, make a bed for her
in that ridiculous boat, drag her with me
everywhere. I try my Arabic. Live? House?
Where? Father? Someone to take her
into that darkness. Finally a woman points
to a building near the minefield. I pass the girl
to her father. We whisper back and forth
as she sleeps without understanding. Our words
are freighters back and forth, hulls empty.
When I wake to shouting I run to the edge
of the minefield ringed in barbed wire
strung with warnings about landmines,
and there was the girl wandering on the field.
Someone holds me back as she turns and looks
at all of us, tucks her chin down and rips
the dress slowly from the collar to the hem—bones,
bruises, a bandage black with blood--
while singing so quietly we hear the click.
