Behind the lintel of the Lion Gate,
swallows had built their nest. Two Mirage jets,
burning Nato dollars, buzzed the valley.
A sweatstained, overweight American
squatted in the shade of the ashlar ramparts,
fanning himself with a bush hat. “Hey, which
pile of stones is this?” A veteran’s pension
kept him in exile. His mom and dad
had once stood arm-in-arm with that eager,
cropped marine recruit, who was altogether now
someone else. Thanksgiving and each birthday,
he would call collect. “This is the country
to screw up with your folks!”… He lies in the bunker,
smoking a joint. The black sergeant plays Hendrix
on his new Hitachi. From six miles
up the valley, NVA artillery
blow their minds… Parts of his skull were wired
like a broken vase. On the tourist bus,
his compatriots avoided him.
He smelt of despair, was a friend, a son,
brother missing in firefields of tattered
flags. Survivor’s guilt confounds. How he longed
to talk of Khe Sanh, how often spoke of
America! Swallows dipped above him,
under the gate. He did not look at them.
Note: this piece has been subsequently published in ‘A Jar of Sticklebacks’ – http://www.armadillocentral.com/general/a-jar-of-sticklebacks-by-david-selzer
By David Selzer