Leather strapped boots unsettle dust
that hitch on a desert breeze, splash
in children’s crying faces; I am frozen,
beat by bearing sun, a horrified statue
as if these children are weeping Medusas.

Men fall, bullets rapping against their skin;
barrels hot–mine cold–women kneel
by fallen husbands–my brothers do not cease.
Mothers, fathers, feel night’s cold;
children’s warm tears freeze on their bodies.

I hear a brother call, “What is your problem?”
My eyes turn to meet him, desert clothed,
one hand wagging, other pelting terrified innocence,
“Jammed.” One shrug, swings his free hand
re-supporting, re-embracing the hunt.

Thunder shots cease, hoots and hollers fill the air
blanketing mourning wails; I drop my pistol.
I should have escaped; I should have
found refuge among good-humored children, where I
only hear the clickety-clack of plastic pistols.

“Why did you drop your fire-arm!” He stood over me
like a teacher catching child at wrong,
“This nation calls you,” to defend a far away land,
not seen since countrymen took flight, dropped in dunes,
and left to right wrong; gun in hand.

The children will not shut up. I wish for their sake
brothers and I leave–our ignorance–their bliss.
Teacher turns face, left over game filling his nostrils,
flag brothers to de-holster cold pipes, and,
like relentless lions, iron pills shred helpless infants.