Christina A. Sharik


A Vietnam vet called me last night
and had a story to tell –
of a picture he’d lost back in the Nam
but still remembered quite well.

After the battle for a numbered hill
out of the bunkers, they stood –
and near where the bodies were scattered,
was white sand, a leg, and a boot.

He took a picture of the leg,
from the shin down to the toe –
and in his mind it seemed like art
resting in sand, white as snow.

Well, some said that he was being macabre
but he didn’t mean it that way –
he knew that a soul had that day died
and only the leg was to stay –

Though the rest of the man was blasted to hell
among the rubble of war;
this was the picture of “after”
and he wondered about the “before”.

Well, they wouldn’t print his photo
for it was described as a “body part”
and he was so disappointed since
he had thought of the leg as War’s Art.

He brought the photo back in his head
and there it remains today
and so I have brought to poetic life
this story he had to say.

Just a leg, and only a part, at that –
and no sock at all on the foot…
just a part of a leg, on clean
white sand, with a foot in a low black boot.

Author’s Note: For Dan “Sirviven” Pocius