Shades of Grey

Spores of metal are in this Afghan man like a blood smell,

his hand stump wrapped in gauze, his lower legs full of pins.

He keeps his face turned to the hospital wall

and I see his throat work hard at swallowing –

a dry well.

I hear he got injured when his plough struck a mine.

But the medics on call say – Don’t let him suck you in.

We see this all the time. He’s no farmer.

The man moves a blanket with his stump.

Runs his tongue around the metal

anaesthetic taste of his mouth.

He moans that he wants to be released.

Says, please – he has a family to care for

and his plough is what hit the mine.

But the medic, familiar with wounds, is unconvinced

and thinks he knows how most of this man’s hand has gone –

on a night with no moon, in hushed and hurried digging, emplacing

roadside bombs.