My wife doesn’t read my poems
Unless I write on light, airy, happy things
I really don’t blame her
She was there in the dark times
And watched me live through them
She doesn’t enjoy watching
Me rip open old wounds
To see if the maggots
Are still lingering inside
She doesn’t know
The names of my demons
But she knows their sounds-
A scream out from my sleep
She knows how they feel-
As I alternate between clawing at her
And pushing her out of bed
To get her down
Below the line of fire
Another soldier to save
From the deadly battlefield
She knows the demon’s shape and smell-
I’m suddenly upright at 3AM
Stagnant and salty in my cold sweat
I dreamt again of the day I stood up tall
Atop the armored vehicle
To prove that it was safe
To get everyone to stop firing
To try and get a grip on
Indiscipline driven by fear
Exposing myself yet again
Because someone needed
To calm the panic
Of overactive imaginations
And that task fell to me
Because it was my responsibility
To assess the risks
And to get the job done
Sometimes in my dream
The sniper IS still there
And I’m wrong in my assessment
So I don’t walk away
After standing up
To get everyone’s attention
Instead of being in charge
Of evacuating the wounded
In this dream, I’m on the ground
At the Casualty Collection Point
And Doc Turner is trying
To get the bleeding stopped
As the demons circle round me
I hate being wrong
And not being in control
Then suddenly I’m bolted awake
Sitting upright in a cold sweat
And I can feel the maggots
Crawling around under my skin
And I’m never completely sure
If this means the wounds are rotten
Or if this is medicinal-
The eating away of dead flesh
So that only living remains.
Poetry is Good for America