Phineas wished, for the two-thousand-three-hundred-and-twenty-third time, that he had a different name. His father was in the army, and the family moved fairly often. No, unfairly often. There was ... [+]
"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.