Nasiriyah

A moment in a night room
Whisked clarity blossoms to confusion.
And a tongue goes idle, goes restive in a mouth made dry.
The lingering taste of salt, of heated copper, of cheap white bar soap,
Of something else that has no name but is each time unique,
Each time, long familiar.
Taste of the forbidden as a night room goes silent,
As the gasps die down and the bucking of hips fall away to stillness.

A moment in a darkened room.
The smoke of a Humvee burning in the streets.
Machine guns talking in the distance, back and forth, back and forth.
Radio chatter, boys crying in the dark, dressed up in the uniforms of men.
The taste of sweat and dust in every mouth. Bullets lodged in screaming skins.
Taste of gone off Jesus. Remnants of Catholic boyhood.
Staring out into a dark place through broken windows.
Helicopters screaming low,
Over Nasiriyah.

Memories mingle in the night room.
A tongue forgets its purpose, mind forgets action long desired.
And stare into a dark place, stare into two worlds.
Unsure which is real.
She moans now, long fingers running impatient through hair.
“What’s the matter? Don’t stop”
Tell her I’ve forgotten how.
“ Sorry sweetheart, I’m really sorry.

Your pussy has the war in it.”