Final Thoughts
A kettle of vultures spiral
above the undulating waves of
hot air over Baghdad
like rotor blades thudding through
vaporless skies
dry as sand scoured bones
stripped pearl by razor beaks.
Cutting through the
lung scalding crest
in July, a Blackhawk helicopter engorged
with gun strapped men,
praying, chatting, reading letters
from home of weddings, picnics and
walks in the park— their last musings.
A flash from ground scrubs
heroes from the desert scape of
tangerine and plum-hued sunrise.
In the silent, slow-moving space
between children rising from the ground
shaking off the percussion — whooping and
dancing on dirt mottled feet and
pieces of smoking metal with
burning innards of
Blackhawk scudding the sand,
inkish feathers without birds flurry to the
earth, drifting in front of smudged
faces of locals like the grit
blasted names of soldiers
on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall
mirrored in my sodden eyes.
Copyright © Marsha Smith | Year Posted 2017
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