the calls came through loud and clear.
My RTO handed me the receiver.
Congratulations. I was blooded.
The 1st and 3rd platoon leaders
radioed their approval. No longer
was I green like the jungle
in which I was buried.
Congratulations. I was blooded.
My platoon had recorded its first kill.
North Vietnamese regular. Pith helmet,
uniform, rubber-tire sandals
adorning a lifeless body.
One bullet cleanly through his forehead.
Congratulations. I was blooded.
The enemy was dead,
ambushed from behind a tree.
Odd there was no blood visible
draining from the body. Existence fled
when the bullet hit its target
but the only thing that bled
all over the jungle floor
was my innocence.
Congratulations. I was blooded.
...Blooded by Charles H. Johnson, Hillsborough
Today's selection from Charles H. Johnson, a veteran poet and a poet of veterans. Sometimes it feels like we're all in some sort of war, as there is more innocence every day bleeding all over the jungle floor.
Keep reading and writing,
Maureen
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