In a country you’ll never see,
an IED tears apart a man.
He tries again and again
to stand on legs no longer
there, the lesser knots
of his knees finally untied.
In cities built on sand,
the scar carries the wound
into the future; the bandages
won’t stop unraveling.
Sometimes, blood, like breast
milk, leaves the body
through the smallest of holes.
No, there is nothing
miraculous about the body—
it ends. I’ve stood this close
to violence; I’ll never be the same.