It Begins With a Haunting
a ghost haunts the country of Laos
sieving through jungles
crackling twigs because
it has not yet died
beware of it
the one who drags one foot
while the other rots 20 feet away
shoes made of cast metal
footprints ever so present
in night fall
imprints of bomb shells in mud fields
a phantom roams
plains in Laos
hide your children
its breath reeks of agent orange
its shouts
dynamite flames that dusts away human bones
and bamboo baskets
a stench of wheezing willing to fold
curl
leaves and skins of families who
who hide in forest
till their flesh shrivels
like the lungs of many dead soldiers
the fissures of its face
exposes land mines
crooning a song of torment
through throats of civilians fleeing
on the hair of this
wicket phantom
its hair droops the length
of the Ho Chi Minh trail
hear its whispers
it also cries
moans of a past that begs
to be remembered
clawing trees to spell out its name
the ghost wails pain
filters itself everywhere
whimpering
peeling steal and lead
by the millions
what remains become chains
that burrow into earth
by cluster bombs
big bombs
B-52 bombers dropping
in its tons of U.S. congress approval
in ink
an old friend still alive and well
and under moonlight
refugees run
only to meet more trouble
in camps
they desire to break away
from this ghost and its name
and no one recalls its name
of this
ghoul who rages through
the country of
Laos
melting tendons and flesh
this ghost hungers
for humans
screeching napalm gas on
palms of
guerilla soldiers
american soldiers
and vietcong alike
death does not even remember its name
beware but
tell your children
light the candles and the
incense
the ghost drifts because
no one wants to
know about its name
The Secret War
put this crying soul
of secret history
to rest
recognize
its name
bless this curse
that wants to
name
all the people
it claims
and they too
will remain alive
like mines beneath the soil
seeds of calamity
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