She didn't think herself a racist. She'd had black school friends, worked with black women at the restaurant, and watched Oprah daily.
But when her seven-year-old, white daughter brought home a
... [+]
Mountain Nose: International Voluntary Services/VN, ’68-’69, II-III Corps, as orphanage shop instructor, supply delivery, and recon. Member Poets West Society. "While Transporting Motorcycles in Vietnam" is on Short Circuit #01, Short Édition's quarterly review.
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.
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.