One March afternoon in 1969 I was on the deck of a Chinese junk listening to the water clop against the wooden hull and enjoying a breeze that blew toward the South China Sea. The junk bobbed ... [+]
While Transporting Motorcycles in Vietnam
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 chopperHovering above the paddy,Trembling like a gut-shot deer.Lurching along the road in second,Fearful of a broken axle,The firefight fades behind usWhile 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.