Phil

Dear Cheryl,

 

We started packing maxi pads
in our helmets to plug sucking
chest wounds.

 

Another thing—
war flicks don’t know shit about dying.
No one staggers in slow motion crying,
“Mama!”

 

They drop like puppets with
their strings cut.
Zapped.
Offed.
Lit up.
Dead as fucking door knobs.

 

I never prayed before I came here.

 

Love, Phil

 

P.S. My M-16’s chipped, cracked,
metal parts worn through the bluing,
cuz it never leaves my side.
P.P.S. .45 is rusted shut.
Yo-yo can still walk-the-dog though.