Cindy Sage
Iraq casts my memories in the muted color of sand.
When the red sky plucks feathers from the Blackhawk,
These lost moments are stranded on the tarmac.
And I think of you, the barefoot boy.
I was the soldier with the fifty cal. and a bruise.
Don’t say you remember me,
watching from the turret in the mid-day heat.
You were there, you know.
Iron is the taste of blood spilled.
You had the gas can \ I had the bullets.
We both had a job to do.
Keep your shadow. I don’t need it anymore.