Private Lindsay (#MeToo)

She made a show of liberating her breasts

every time we went to the field.

Some pimple-faced private would retrieve her bra

for display in the berthing tent.

Marines quietly jerked off in their sleeping bags

to visions of her bouncing like a go-go dancer

beneath regulation camouflage.

At the club, she wore combat boots, 

vinyl leggings, and tube tops that thrust her 

front-and-center of every conversation.

Guys took shots from between her thighs

while you imagined her naked and sweaty

pouring tequila over lickerish nipples.

Half the platoon claimed to have slept with her,

which you suspected was half-true.

And when she approached in the Company office,

slid her manicured nails into your crotch 

and declared,

        "Tonight,"

all you could muster was a timid,

        "No, Thanks,"

not because you didn't want her,

but for the over-riding impulse you discovered

in that moment

        to resist

                being owned

                        or compromised

except on your terms.

And when she filed grievance with 

the Master Sergeant accusing

        you

of sexually assaulting

        her

you learned that some women will slit a man's throat

and carve his round edges straight

in order to sculpt an image hardened

by the terrible parade of embittered step-mothers,

predatory uncles, and beguiling boyfriends

who taught her the only power

a woman wields in this world

is with her body.

Corpses

 

            Outside Kuwait City (1991)

We came upon them mid-day

in a rush for shelter from the petrol rain,

three corpses upright in an armored personnel carrier

as crisp as dime-store cigars.

Oil fires illuminated a blast zone surrounding the vehicle,

casting a perverse half-light

over the living and dead.

Some Marines took photos with the corpses,

souvenirs for the living back home.

I kept watch through the scorched, steel turret

and thought of my Grandfather lying embalmed

in a casket in Enid, Oklahoma.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I was sixteen when Grandpa died

and recalled him displayed like some wax mannequin

stuffed with ice and vinegar.

The mortician overdid Grandpa's makeup

which cracked like desert topsoil around his hairline.

I half-expected him to rise up

and scold the adults in the room

for displaying him that way.

The preacher's pontificating ran on for eternity,

and I experienced a skepticism swelling in me

toward claims that the dead reanimate

in a celestial paradise

surrounded by childhood pets

and deceased loved ones.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Staring back at those unfortunate soldiers

trapped in a fiery death-box of American military might,

the poison rain hammered away

at our fragile notion of youth's invincibility.

The thunder of approaching artillery

rattled our momentary reprieve.

An offhanded sentiment offered 

by our most-junior squad member,

a boot private from Encinitas, California,

proved a more convincing eulogy

than Grandpa received.

"Sucks to be them," he said. 

**First published in As You Were literary magazine

and second-place winner of the 2023 Col. Darren L. Wright Memorial Writing Awards.

**Illustration by Morgane Xenos

PsyOps Theater (Desert Storm)

Dear American Soldier, are you prepared to die for a barrel of oil?
Dear Iraqi Soldier, we are a Multinational Force with overwhelming air superiority.
Would you like to be one of the cripples who are only lamented in the charity ceremonies?
We want you to know the truth! It is the actions of Saddam Hussein which have forced the world to war with Iraq.
You know you cannot win against our fearsome troops and the invincible best friend of Allah.
We have no desire to harm innocent people, but Saddam is leading you to certain death.
Put down your bombs. Demand to go home. You are weary of sand and sun and sweat on your body from senseless aggression.
Resistance is purposeless. The outcome is inevitable. Kuwait will be free from Saddam’s aggression.
You are secretly admiring the great leader, Saddam Hussein, and asking yourself, “Why am I here?”.
Your fellow soldiers along the entire front have either surrendered or were killed by our bombs.
How do you like our Arab lands where you cannot get a Kentucky Fry Big Mac to eat and you are always missing your half-naked, immoral sweetheart back home.
Save yourselves and head toward the Saudi border where you will be welcomed as a brother.
Your American president is losing allies.  He is like the stupid fox that enters into the house of the clever fox.
To seek refuge safely, remove the magazine from your weapon, raise both arms above your head and approach our forces slowly.
Your Arab allies will turn their weapons against U.S. soldiers instead of Iraqis.
If you do this you will not die.
Why be dead for your president’s dumb mistake?