13 pairs of muddied boots,

26 throbbing ears, bandaged feet,

Vacant eyes, burning lungs.

Nine resentful villagers, they meet.

 

13 beating hearts and racing minds,

130 calloused fingers, give or take,

12 family photos.

One bamboo stake.

 

12 M-16s and one M-60

52 perhaps, Mark IIs.

2600 rounds—less the 473

Expended, wisped away, like a fuse.

 

12 helmets

(One crushed in the fray)

And one, one smile,

Despite the disarray

 

One call, radioed to base

One more “W”

To be chalked up

For the red white and blue.

 

"Why poetry?" you ask

It can't stitch up the wounds of battle, that's true.

But if numbers become words, perhaps,

It can close the divide between me and you.