War Work

War Work

Three long rows of instruments
arraigned meticulously on a mayo stand,
ligatures speaking the language of silence.
Under the light, I in my ghostly mask
suturing the fragmented intestine,
as big around as the thick casing
of a Polish sausage. “Right here
is the critical part, saving
this soldier’s life.” We work in shifts,
morning, noon, night. First bright
sun’s rays enter the tent, I
pause after the last suture
to take in the new day reaching
outside and beyond. Daylight
bathes the standing and moving
rows of armored tanks; fresh gusts
of desert wind blowing, battered
buildings, fallen palaces of Saadam
and sons. As far as the mind sees
a rolling cloud of locusts as dark
as death brings the wounded in.