JASON POUDRIER
Red Fields
My feet sink
into the Barnestilled soil
of my father-in-law's
Oklahoma land,
reminding me of times
before I met his daughter.
When I drove along
in a tank convoy
towards Baghdad
at the same
pace as a tractor
over an unplowed field,
we dug foxholes
in the sand
with every stop we made.
My driver and I would have
fifteen minutes to dig
two foxholes,
with e-tools
better designed for
digging 1'x1' cat-holes.
When the sand was soft
like the overworked
edges of the short-rows
of my father-in-law's fields,
it was a blessing.
We'd dig our holes deep,
safe, to plant ourselves into
if we came under fire,
so we could rise out
when the lead rain ended.
When the sand was as hard
as the unworked
ground hiding under
the buffalo grass,
our e-tools would chink
at the surface with every hit;
our holes would be shallow,
and we'd push the sand up around
the perimeter, making
a false reservoir of safety,
knowing bullets would penetrate
the powdered walls if we were ambushed,
and our bodies would lie
half-exposed in shallow graves,
in pools coloring the sand
Oklahoma clay.
When his daughter was only
a pin-up girl in my mind,
the sandstorms would erase
the foxholes after we left;
now I drive my father-in-law's tractor
and set the plow into the soil
to cultivate his land.
Baghdad International
The ninety-four left
of 3-13 Field Artillery,
Red Dragon Battalion,
drove over
bumps by night,
bodies by day;
then in the afternoons, they bagged
the scrunched, scorched remains
from yesterday's artillery fires,
clearing their claim
of the Baghdad airport.
Then they guarded their plot
with .50 cals, M-249s, 16s, and 203s,
weapons unable to distinguish
between civilians and suicide bombers,
and futile against the harpy-sized,
flesh-eating flies that would invade
night and day, every day.
Nineteen miles and two days
south of Baghdad,
four Dragons went to Heaven,
at least we presume;
their Bibles were recovered.
They traveled by means of burning
in a Humvee lit up
by an Air Force bomb.
Three others were medivacted out,
detached from the ninety-four
as our limbs were detached from our bodies,
saved from witnessing the airport
by means of shrapnel, bullets, and a Blackhawk;
we flew south as the unit continued
on the road home.
One soldier on a stretcher beside me,
his legs had apparently sinned
or traveled upward prematurely
because they didn't accompany us
any longer, nor did what looks my other buddy had.
His face now looks as if it were rained on
by burning shrapnel, which it was.
The ninety-four rose
from Baghdad by means of a 747.
They returned to what once was home.
At least the only other man
to go through Hell and arise
went straight to Heaven after.
They entered another damnation
full of divorce decrees, drugs,
and broken bank accounts;
some brought the death back with them,
just as we all brought back our badge,
and their families got to go through it too.
Few returned to a moment's awkward embrace
of a family knowingly never understanding.
But each of the ninety-four still had each other
until car accidents, drug overdoses,
and return deployments began to pick them off
like a sniper, one by one.
Fort Sill's New Housing Division
Military bases name buildings, roads, training areas,
and everything else after highly decorated soldiers,
retired soldiers, soldiers killed in action, or people
the military killed or captured. Geronimo Road can
also be found on Fort Sill.
I find Robbins Road.
His freckles sink down,
the color of his lips runs off
into his white, opaque skin
that sags down
like a sheet
placed over his face.
Subtle red and blue lines,
like broken glass
that stays intact,
show through.
A dark worm of red stretches out
from his lips down
to the gurney at his back.
I see him finishing
right after me around the track,
his gray PT shirt clinging to his heaving chest,
his freckles shimmering under sweat.
His crimson lips form a smile.
I smile back and nod,
knowing he didn't make time
for max points,
but with no heart
to tell him he didn't.
He trains me on push-ups
and sit-ups during the week;
on the weekend,
if his wife permits,
I train him on the run.
I turn left onto Oaks Road.
He stands guard half out of the top
of an armored Humvee.
A bomb hits and he is almost severed
at the waist. The medics cut
off his blood-saturated DCUs,
place his intestines back in,
and bundle him with bandages.
But the bleeding doesn't stop.
He makes it onto the Blackhawk
but never gets off.
I see him in my peripheral
standing at attention.
I curse his creased,
dark green BDUs
that make my month-old
set look wrinkled and faded,
his kiwi boots that outshine mine,
which I spent hours on
the night before.
The platoon sergeant praises him
and then steps over to me.
After cursing Oaks, I ask him,
and he shares his military secrets with me,
like he shared his life secrets with his fiancé.
I turn right onto Rhen Road.
He can't be found at first.
He took the impact of the bomb.
They piece him back together,
no gauze or tape necessary,
place all that can be found
of him into one bag with
his dog tags for identification
and send him home
to his wife and daughters.
I see him in his dress blues
at the Saint Barbara's Ball;
I admire his many rows of ribbons,
his tight high-and-tight,
the shine of the brass U.S. and cross cannons
on his lapel. He is the complete package
of military bearing, the NCO on the
Army commercials.
I watch him smile
toward his wife
and her return.
I don't approach him
with the smudge on my brass U.S.
I keep searching for my road.
Shrapnel pierces my back,
weaving through organs and bones,
only serrating muscle,
leaving me perforated, but intact.
My blood strains out of my body,
but with several field bandages
my blood coagulates.
My lungs keep filling with air.
My PT shirt clings to my chest
after I pump out the max
pushups and sit-ups
while I await the run.
I press my BDUs with an iron
and can of spray starch an extra time
just before formation.
After heating my kiwi with a lighter,
I pour it lightly over
the toes of my boots,
then begin to shine.
I remove the smudge
off my brass
and call my girlfriend
to apologize
for the fight
we had the night before.
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