The Killhole
He strikes the match and watches the flame dance and flicker,
splashing light upon deeds that stretch all the way to an exhausted and weary
heart. His body grinds out menial tasks among the hanging wires,
hardhats, and drill guns while His mind returns to the kill hole. Tears are His
bullets. Revenge is His rifle. His bones wait for a revolution,
any excuse to oppress. His faith is an underscore to duty. Beneath His skin He
knows that houses are built upon hate and Iraqi children
make excellent mortar. At the end of the day, He still searches for dead bodies
behind the drywall. At home, a baby bawls and reaches
for His rough hand. With a gentle rocking and rough lullaby; the crying stops.
The pacifier smells like whiskey.
The Platoon Sergeant
You had a pigeon, or a child
locked in a wire cage. You fed it glass,
made it do push ups, and kissed it goodnight
when you put it to bed.
You taught it to speak.
When it tried to say the word father,
you opened the cage and taught it to fly.
Zipper
The war has seared through me like a jagged
unsightly scar, running down the middle
of my body and holding
it together.
Lazy Days (Because Killing Is The Easy Part)
It is on these days that we truly suffer; when our spear-tipped skill sets
are not needed and memories begin to etch themselves into our skulls
while time slowly crawls across our skin:
some wander off and call home,
some drink Listerine flavored vodka,
I sit outside and lazily strum my guitar in time with the incoming mortar alarms.
Bio: Gerardo Mena is a decorated Iraqi Freedom Veteran that spent six years with the Reconnaissance Marines. He was the winner of the "2010 War Poetry" contest sponsored by Winningwriters. For more information on him go to www.gerardomena.com.