Saturday, July 1, 2006

NPR: Iraq Soldier Describes War in Poetry


Eulogy

    It happens on a Monday, at 11:20 A.M.,
    as tower guards eat sandwiches
    and seagulls drift by on the Tigris River.
    Prisoners tilt their heads to the west
    though burlap sacks and duct tape blind them.
    The sound reverberates down concertina coils
    the way piano wire thrums when given slack.
    And it happens like this, on a blue day of sun,
    when Private Miller pulls the trigger
    to take brass and fire into his mouth:
    the sound lifts the birds up off the water,
    a mongoose pauses under the orange trees,
    and nothing can stop it now, no matter what
    blur of motion surrounds him, no matter what voices
    crackle over the radio in static confusion,
    because if only for this moment the earth is stilled,
    and Private Miller has found what low hush there is
    down in the eucalyptus shade, there by the river.

    PFC B. Miller
    (1980-March 22, 2004)

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