Topic: Verse
The captain had a flesh wound and it hurt.
But when he met the people of the camp,
He forgot about his arm. He stopped dead,
Just inside the gate, and could not go on.
Who are they? he asked. His voice appalled him.
It came out like sick man’s dying croak.
Juden, Juden. He didn’t know the word.
The red-haired corporal looked around and said,
I’m from Boston. We never had much use
In my neighborhood for Jews. Then he asked,
What kind of place is this? But the young girl—
If it was a girl—in the tattered stripes,
Who clutched his sleeve, had no answer to give—
No answer in her mouth, nor in her eyes.
The regimental surgeon kicked the dirt
And shrugged when someone asked him what to do.
He said, They’re starving—starving. Can’t you see?
No, don’t give them food. Too much would kill them.
He touched his pockets, hunting for a smoke,
But stilled his hand when some striped skeleton,
With a hideous smile, asked for water.
The sergeant took his helmet off. A year,
He said to no one in particular.
You know, I never even got a scratch.
The bastards couldn’t touch me. An old man
Shuffled up. Americans? he whispered.
Yeah, Americans, the sergeant answered.
We’re late. I’m sorry. Now he had his wound.