Agent Orange

At night, when headlights cast their UFO glow

through the window, he dreams

of a war neither won nor lost — just endured.

A bolt of pain snakes from toe to hip,

shoulder to temple, then coils back down.

Thuk-thuk-thuk-thuk—rhythmic, like the blades

of the chopper that med-evac’d him out of the jungle.

A 19-year-old boy,

so strong — he stayed standing
after the bullet passed through.

But he cried for his mama

once he realized it.

That was over fifty years ago.

It's not the bullet that hurts now,

but the poison —

the so-called "herbicide,"

the so-called "defoliant,"

his own government sprayed.

Now, they send a monthly stipend,

a weekly pain patch.

When he jokes,

“Psssssss. I’m a tire leaking —

Quick! Patch me, baby!”

I see that 19-year-old boy again.

Some spirits take longer to fall apart

than their bodies.

He hurts every night —

and still laughs, with me,

on Friday morning.