Militaria

Here is a sunbaked brick 

from Ur, Kurdish dinars, 

and a poster of Saddam waving 

 

his rifle skyward. 

Here is the flag I found 

in a cache guarded by troops 

 

ordered not to take

the bayonets and uniforms 

they’d seized—so we did— 

 

the rank I cut loose 

from the enemy’s rotting 

beret, the gasmask I shipped home,

 

the pack of smokes 

I bartered water for, 

and a book I pulled from rubble. 

 

Here is an Iraqi soldier’s 

abandoned personnel record 

I stole from a rusted cabinet: 

 

his name penciled 

in Arabic, his height 

and weight and next of kin, 

 

his awards and past duty

stations, even his eye color, 

which I cannot tell from the black 

 

and white photo still 

stapled to the file’s corner. 

And here is the cardboard box 

 

in which I manage 

to keep it all. If I move it,

the grit that settled scrapes inside.

 

Originally published in CONSEQUENCE (Spring 2015).