Gene L. Gillette                                                 

My Foxhole

Fresh wounds, decomposing flesh and body parts.

Musty rations, vomit, excrement and one’s own

unwashed body odor mix with searing jungle heat.

Nostrils burn and clog.

Limited sight, from a hellish thousand legged centipede

to six feet into the jungle, crawling with much more

than foxhole insects. Laying next to me, my newly dead best friend.

His youth forever wasted.

Men scream as searing ballistics rip through

bodies god meant for love, not war.

Battles explode upon us like earthquakes,

then disappear, leaving a silence that one’s own heartbeat

pounds and pounds and pounds.

Alone, I touch the foxhole dirt to find reality.

In disbelief, my fingers gently probe my dead friend’s chest,

his Saint Christopher resting lightly on my hand.

Before I go insane, I touch myself, sweet flesh of Miriam.

Swallowing abnormal fear saliva

and sucking an open wound

mixes a sweat, saliva and blood cocktail.

This hell is my universe, my reality.

Forever Babe

Stitches turning, motion forward,

cartoon lines push a baseball

toward a shimmering window.

White circular clouds: an awkward brown and green tree

paint the background, filling the paper.

Stripes, knee socks and boyish grins.

Awkward Giants, our sublime heroes.

Ruth, Mantle, Tinker to Evers to Chance.

American fabric, woven so deep, our older hands grip tighter on our corporate bats.

Frozen crayons, childishly drawn in time

forbids the baseball to break the window.

Ah but memories stream, a thousand sunshine days

of hot dogs, friendly crowds and the Boys of Summer.