THE WRITERS POST
VOLUME 11 NUMBER 1
SIMON PETER EGGERTSEN
We went into villages after they
dropped napalm and the human
beings were fused together like pieces
of metal that had been soldered.
Dominic Bazzotto, 1972
False Vietnam report
The arc light flashes, strikes in the dark,
a cobra spitting and blinding.
Heat lightening in silence, ricocheting off the horizon,
like on summer nights in the valleys of Utah.
But this is a darkened street in Hanoi.
The metal snaps in response to the hit,
fusing hard to itself. The white buzz repeats.
The iron sings on its way to becoming
an entrance-way gate.
The white-hot weld, pulsing molten for a second,
makes sure the fit.
The twisting reptile cord coils and dances,
then stiffens and jumps as the charge rushes
through the line seeking cold steel.
It wants it hot, if only for a moment,
to freeze the metal to metal.
Through the night, as I lie in the bed, the
flashed light, strobes the room, bounces off the wall.
The storm of work rages outside the quiet walls.
In the morning the metal lies cold and dead,
stiffened on the walk, stung over
and over by the hot viper.
What were strips the night before now together
will become a guarding door, protecting others
from life's arcing strikes.
But first a red priming for its life to hide
the night’s hideous wounds.
The Writers Post
founded 1999, based in the US.
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