1
min

While Transporting Motorcycles in Vietnam

36 readings

1

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.

CONTEST

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1

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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.
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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.
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