Henry, how did you die?
Oh, I know what it said in the paper:
Shot through the neck in Baghdad,
Cut down like a stalk of wheat
As gold as the hairs tracing through your red stubble
While manning a checkpoint,
Handing out candy
Rise, you always loved to talk, so tell me--
How did you die?
Was it quick, or hard,
And could you speak?
Did it nick you just enough
To slice something important,
A cruel twist,
Or was it a full-on blast
That left your head hanging on by a thread?
Were you conscious?
And if you were, did you think about
Your new wife, and your stepson, and your baby on the way
Who will only know Daddy as a name and picture?
Because as I walked back to our sandy tent,
Kuwait drinking my tears, I did
And a great many other things:
Henry C. Risner, drunken scholar
He of the yellowed eyes and scruffy grin,
Good of heart and bad of habit;
Attempted feeder of sleeping people
Ambassador for Colorado, whether you wanted to hear or not
Curfew violator extrodinaire,
But just for beer and yaki-mandoo;
Machine-gun pack mule up many a snowy Korean hill
Bleary formation-goer
Faithful comrade, Eeyore of our little island in the rice paddy sea
Risner, tell me,
Why can't we go back to yesterday
Swapping stories up that hill,
Getting hammered on scotch and Jack--
Before they did this
To you
To us
To me?

02/02/2005

Posted on 02/02/2005
Copyright © 2024 Jon-Jacob F Deal