Friendly Fire

Section commander, stranded, soaked in his seventh hour of battle

dismounts in the vineyards near Pashmul, his vehicle bogged down

in the irrigation ditch – having just taken incoming fire,

having just lost two of his crew

to blood wounds he couldn’t tourniquet.

He radios for air strikes against the enemy. Coalition firepower

takes to the skies above them, only to miss by half a click. He listens

to the five-hundred-pounder they drop

come whistling in towards him.

Shouts at what’s left of his men to get down,

tastes dirt, feels heat, plugs one ear and thinks

Shit –

this one’s gonna be close.