Jess was only ten when the first pods washed up on the shore. She'd been standing with her toes dug into the sand, letting the cold Atlantic Ocean swirl around her ankles, daring herself to venture ... [+]
"Saigon '68" was originally published in Short Edition’s July '19 Rendez-Vous. Mountain Nose: International Voluntary Services/VN, ’68-’69, II-III Corps, as orphanage shop instructor, supply delivery, and recon. “Saigon ’68” inspired on rooftop post-Tet. Member Poets West Society.
I have seen you, shell-shocked city,
Shimmer in the parachute flares
The day's dust and exhaust glowing green
In the light of descending torches.
I have heard the wooden whooping
Of the gunship's prop as it circles Districts 7 and 8,
Pouring down fire, every fourth round a tracer,
A blazing stream arching onto its target.
Then, emptied, it flies away, leaving the night in silence,
Save for the rustle of bamboo leaves.
I have watched as the flares rock gently to their firefly deaths,
Returning the night to blackness.
Darkness – soft as felt cloth, brittle as smoked glass.
Shattered by a single rifle shot – crisp as billiard balls striking.
Shimmer in the parachute flares
The day's dust and exhaust glowing green
In the light of descending torches.
I have heard the wooden whooping
Of the gunship's prop as it circles Districts 7 and 8,
Pouring down fire, every fourth round a tracer,
A blazing stream arching onto its target.
Then, emptied, it flies away, leaving the night in silence,
Save for the rustle of bamboo leaves.
I have watched as the flares rock gently to their firefly deaths,
Returning the night to blackness.
Darkness – soft as felt cloth, brittle as smoked glass.
Shattered by a single rifle shot – crisp as billiard balls striking.