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