Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.44.0210070121240.15127-100000@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.aol.com>,
"WRYTING-L : Writing and Theory across Disciplines" <WRYTING-L@LISTSERV.UTORONTO.CA>
Subject: you
Date: Mon, 7 Oct 2002 01:21:35 -0400 (EDT)
you don't know about this war. you have your bible with you and a lock of your girlfriend's hair. you have a picture of your family. you have a picture of the farmhouse. you carry these things around with you in a leather wallet. they're almost unreal and you hope they won't be left here when you die. smoke rises a hundred yards down the trench, part of the wall has caved in. you can smell fire. you dream at night, anything but this. you cry when no one's looking. you can't remember anything clearly, that's the worst of it. occasionally a scrap of conversation, something your father said. you remember the touch of your girlfriend and that last kiss. there's not much of your world left, and there's nothing here. you rise out of the trench, you rise. last night they were saying there's a bullet meant for each of us. too many men are already dead. you can't see skin without seeing the wounds, you know what's beneath the surface. you swear at the lieutenant who sent you out here, but you know that's what he's supposed to do. your canteen's already useless, the canvas torn, the aluminum punctured. you borrow one from the soldier next to you. he won't be needing it any more. sprays of dirt fly overhead as the shells come closer. you can hear screaming mixed with everything else. how can you prepare for the incision, the removal of the bullet, the attack comes but once, you're left in the trenches, you're cold, you smoke a cigarette. there's no energy in the letter from your girl, but it's all you have and it's already worn through, what are you going to do. the earth's in front of you, behind you - the trench opens, up and down the line, there are many others like you, and the sound is indescribable. you can't think and you hold on to the letter. you hear the sounds of bombs in the distance as aircraft fly overhead. you know someone will bring heavy artillery in, and there will be soldiers manning the guns just like yourself. you can't remember much about home, and the landscape here has disappeared - just blasted trees and raw earth. there's a stone farmhouse in the distance. these are the worst days, when the sky is dark and damp, when the mist falls, soaking everything. you smell lignite and mold. you don't think you're ever coming home. susanne graham ===