Cold dog tags
press against my chest
under the weight
of kevlar body armor. Their
embossed words
imprint into my skin.
Name. Social Security Number.
Religion—
Latter-Day Saint.
My Humvee’s air conditioning
does just enough to
make me want more.
I tell my gunner
Iraq was once
the Garden of Eden.
Guess again, he says, and
throws a piss bottle
into the street.
We shot a man yesterday.
Righteous,
someone had said.
Black hair caught in the zipper
of the body bag. Maybe
this is what Adam looked like.
Maybe I should pray
when I’m not
scared.
The missionaries in my ward
back home
told me there is a painting
of Teancum
hanging in the MTC.
His spear in a
killing motion.
For Teancum and me,
war is not a rumor.