He stares at the whizzing blades above the bed,
recalling each face during moonlight hours—
civilians twitching with each bullet as they slam
into walls, finally trapped.
His hands, trembling, remain bare
but the faint iron odor sits under his nose, unmoving
since 1967 in Dak Son.

Defeated cries pierce the early morning silence
in the village.  A baby whimpers next to the body
of his mother. Women’s feet pound against gray dirt,
an anthem for the safety of children.

He visits fallen brothers, squinting
at endless rows of gravestones.
The villagers all lie together.

I’ve been hit

This is it
I’m going to die
But I was lucky
It was just dirt that blinded me
And a bullet with its own dying gasp
But it hurt so bad
I thought about living
I couldn’t just walk away from it all
Then I realized I was ok
I wanted to live so badly
I finally realized the truth
I thought of my Mother
And my Dad
I got up
I had to live for them
And die for them too

Fear was no longer an issue

We say leave no Marine behind
But we also never leave courage behind
There is a way a Marine must live
And it was time to run
Forward
Up the hill
We had to take it
We jumped over potholes
Holes made by our jets
And our artillery
We just had to **** them all
We had bayonets
It was going to be ruthless
There was no time for anything but victory

There is nothing more desperate than hand to hand combat

While people were carrying signs
I was carrying a gun
While people were fighting the police
I was fighting a stranger
I had to **** a man I would never know
Or he would **** me
I kept thinking
This is it
But I kept running
And everyone was with me
Courage was everywhere
Politics didn’t matter
Morality didn’t matter
We just had to take the hill
And we did
Even after three days of no rations
The choppers brought them in
We thought they were going to take us out of there
But instead we were ordered to take the hill
We had to order people to die
I don’t know how I can forget this

I ordered my best man to die

He had to be the one
Because if he didn’t do it
We would all die
And now I carry that with me
Forever
When you look at me
Old
Wrinkled
Saluting
I’m thinking of him
That is why I am crying
And I will never forget
They say I’m a hero for freedom
But that day I was a warrior
And I didn’t think about freedom
I just thought about my guys
It was about us
Some of us survived
Others did not
But I am their memory
And today I remember the sign on the tree

“Was it worth it?"

it became a perpetual motion
a dance
someone hands the card, another lights
the amount of aching discolored grazed fingers was immense
put your finger on the flint wheel
press it down

karen thought we should make a sign
the scrambles of bruised fingers for a piece of cardboard
my fingers throbbed as i scratched our message on the board
i kept the pink flower locked in the crease of my hand
and threw them in air
“draft card burning here”

it was 7 00 in the morning
october 21 1967
i was only 17
my brother jeffrey was flying a plane over dien bien phu
a friend richard was screaming in the trenches of xuan loc
a lover michael treading through a swamp in mui bai ****

i stepped up to The Police.
The. Men. In. Suits. Stared. At. Me
Blank. Faces. And. No. Expression.
I picked up my Pink Daisy, and brought it up to their bayonets
this is for Jeffrey, for Richard, and for Michael

the men in suits stared at me
in a world of chaos and confusion
all I heard was
Silence.

One for the man bunkered down in the trenches
sent in by his country as a henchman.
He's laying in the mud, praying for safety,
losing less blood than what's shed daily.
In this hazy hell, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine seeps in, easing the beaten.
And in no man's land, a man cries for mercy
but his cries are cut off by the hands of Murphy.
Early in the morning, he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, heading back to base camp.
There's a damper in the room, sunken like the marsh.
Friends have fallen, it's clearly marked.
And his heart aches but they can't be dead.
Nah, he sees them every time he lays down his head.
From time to time, he jolts up out of breath,
but he never felt more alive, when he was close to death.

It's not a sob story, no it's just old glory

Two for the man bunkered down by the park bench,
clutching a cup, praying for penance.
He's laying on cement, waiting for change,
and trying to stay dry from the god-**** rain.
In this day and age, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine tabs, tap in the defeated.
Lungs splitting, teeth gritting, he's wishing for mercy.
Two times the dose, he curses out Murphy.
Early in the morning he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, he heads back to PADs.
He grabs a tray, sits alone, and says grace
because there's no space open for the "nutcase".
Arm's race to golden gates, he dragged a debt.
He carried his country as heavy as regret.
He carries his friends, they dangle from his neck.
But the thing about memories is that you can't forget.

It's not a sob story, it's just old glory

© Matthew Harlovic

can you take my
shotgun shells and press
them into your ears because
i don't think i can stomach them
by myself,
he says, whispers to me
feebly while he plops the
heat of skeleton weapons
into my hands.
i did what he asked,
but he never told me his name.
and now i am sitting here
with gunfire symphonies and no
identity to put to the trembling
fingers that composed them. did
he **** or was he killed?
did he love his friend more
than himself and is that why
he held his ****** hands
in his ****** lap and
cried, "death love me" ?
i am shaking and small--
so was he.
i do not know much else of him
but that his face was sunshine
leather and his eyes were purple
in the haze of ****** summer
and more than anything
he was so terrified;
he did not
want to eat
his shotgun shells
alone.

No one knew.
Why: the reasons we did what we did.
Massacres and chemical warfare, the draft
Because no one would volunteer.
Why did we go to war?
The government spinning lies of what happened,
Yet the footage on the news says the opposite.
We were losing everything. Killed
For no reason, and so were they.

All because or allies could not
Deal with losing
What they stole.
Communism was spreading, of course,
But why couldn't we let the others
Take care of it?
It's in their country,
Their neighbors, not ours.

It never should have happened,
Regardless of whether or not
We had a fire hose.

Grandma’s house was a hollow cinder block.
In the front yard stood a lone pear tree that bore blushing pink teardrops year round.
Every night magnolias bloomed like clockwork, pirouetting inside on light feet
to chase away stale sickness,
soothing us when Ông Cố barked at the rattling chain fence,
his voice walking with heavy coughs.

Even on New Year’s when we patted lipstick on our cheeks and mouths,
bright red like our silk dresses,
And danced in the cement front yard around spider web cracks.
He barked like an engine backfiring, frustrated and rusting from the inside out.
He was red too, all water and darkness.

We slept on woven mats atop concrete beds
inside a mesh shroud of Jupiter’s storm cloud.
Heat suspended over us, a bog of stagnation in the brick bathroom
breeding fish and algae, our bathwater aquarium in bloom with larvae,
mosquitoes never not pregnant and full of our blood.

Yet still we survived the nights and gathered to watch the morning sun
wide eyed, heads tucked in grandma’s soft lap,
chewing on our tear drops,
the yelling in the next room withering away.