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When you’ve spent your days
Scooping up viscera
Hosing down gore
When you’ve spent your nights
Huddled with the others
Waiting for the next shell to hit your trench
When it’s them or you
So you pull the trigger
And fear to miss more than you fear to hit
And you want to dream about peace
But all you see when you close your eyes
Is the face of that kid dead in the rubble
And the yielding pressure of her body underfoot
Before you realized what, in the haze, you had stumbled over.
When food tastes like water
Water tastes like worms
And heavy smells permeate
Gun oil, swamp foot, metal blood
When all this smells like home
Then
You’ll understand.
Fresh Hell 