Charles J. Prusik

RELIEF

in the morning
out of the mist
the choppers come
into the paddies
like a squadron of gods
into the heat
landing with precision
as a curling wave
on a sandy shore

no one has slept
‘cept the dead
who lie beaten
by the storm
of fragmented hail

later
after we’ve eaten
in the photo
in the papers
we slept peacefully
in each other arms
in our own wounds
each to our own nightmares