While Transporting Motorcycles in Vietnam

36 readings


I wedge myself between the Hondas,
Giving up my place to him,
Moving slowly and with help.
Pant legs slashed to bloody ribbons,
Flopping rust-colored at his ankles,
Like the assault lines of the chopper
Hovering above the paddy,
Trembling like a gut-shot deer.
Lurching along the road in second,
Fearful of a broken axle,
The firefight fades behind us
While he rocks there – grim but silent.
And when the medics ease him out,
In the dimple of the seat,
Red dust, red blood mix together,
Congealing in the jungle heat.


Image of Short Circuit #01

Few words for the author? Comment below.

Take a look at our advice on commenting here!

To post comments, please
Image of Mountain Nose
Mountain Nose · ago
Prithvijeet -- You are correct. War is a brand burned into the soul and a madness challenging your concepts of reality. Thank you for the kind words.
Image of Prithvijeet Sinha
Prithvijeet Sinha · ago
Your account of the Vietnam War in this capsule of a poetic gem is hard hitting and reminds us of the war that continues to haunt us till date.

You might also like…


When did my heart harden? How did empathy slip away? Dr. Lindelson pondered these questions in the spacious office where she had practiced psychotherapy for forty years, since she completed her ...