Notes: When I wrote this, March 2006, I believe, America's death toll in Iraq was at a plus 2,000. I had to edit this poem to post it here. Jesus Christ. Try to enjoy. I sure as hell couldn't.

eighteen hours.

It is said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
but if beauty is in the soul,
where is death?
Does death wait in the wings patiently?
Does is lie beneath the roads that our Humvee treads,
or is it to the shoulder, biding its time for that call?
That one call miles away.
But maybe, it is lying in a shell.
Maybe death is crouched behind a wall,
a rifle clutched tightly in its hands.

And if fear is all we have to fear,
then why does the cool surface of my phone slip from my fingers.
The plastic shatters on the floor and my heart stings, burns, aches,
my Captain; my leader, my inspiration, my brother.
November, he says,
pack your bag on the second, but be ready on the first.
Eighteen hours, he reminds me.
Don’t be drunk, don’t be late.
I want to see the color of your eyes, he says,

not the size of your pupils.
I choke out a yes, but that is all I can manage,
because of that pain and we grew up together and the Captain won’t pull his rank.

I mutter goodbye and that we will see each other soon,
and as that plastic shatters against the tiles,
shining dully as the morning light shines in through the window,
I sink to floor, but I will not cry.
But I do.

The chartered plane rumbles softly through my kitchen,
gradually becoming louder and louder,
until I swear it must be right outside my door.
How I wish I was going elsewhere,
anywhere but there.
There where desolate sands and terror and sadness and poverty rule supreme.
As I sit in that seat,
and my stomach clenches and the plane rolls in takeoff,
my mind flashes to the silk.

The beautifully stitched silk that flowed through my fingertips,

The stitches rough against my skin.

This ain’t Vietnam, the instructors scream,
because these men,

and these women are not paid to be our friends.
We won’t jump into the shit, girls.
That pack on your back,

that weight holding you down,
is what separates the troops from the troopers.
You will be troops until the day that shiny piece of metal,
shines from your chest.
And then, maybe then,
I’ll be convinced that you are not green,

and they sneer with hatred directed towards all that you stand for,
but you stand it because you are a soldier,
and you know that their hatred that brews beneath,
beneath their wide brimmed hats is all for your country.

But as I sit in that plane,
my mind flashes back,
I frown in remembrance and my eyes cloud,
when I realize there is no pack on my back,
when I realize that this is not Vietnam.
And it is not silk that brushes against my skin,
it is the icy cold fingers of my best friend on my wrist.
My Captain, my leader, my inspiration,

my brother is just as frightened as I am.
There is no pack on his back,

And there is no silk above us,
only an exploding sky.
This is an omen of uncertainty and horror,
the mourning of the colors of death,

the screams as the bus rolls to a stop.
The sirens drown it all out.

That chartered flight is round trip,
no questions asked and I fly in,
on my seat, and the rumble of the engines can be heard,
but another question remains.
That one question,

haunting my dreams and reaping my nightmares.

3,000 plus gone,

so on my flight back,
will I acquire cargo?