At Twenty Nine Palms, the Marines contort
the landscape – yellow-white like dying skin –
to simulate Baghdad, prepping to distort
or end lives in Iraq. Our mortal sin
of war. Here fifty-five years earlier,
my brother the doctor cared for Semper Fi
as Mojave Desert would parch and sear
our dear boys, pre-seasoned for ‘Nam. He’d try
to save their lives in Da Nang. Sometimes would,
sometimes not. All depended on the wound
gashing the yellow-white dying skin. Could
he, at times, have heard their whispering sounds
of sorrow – their mute confessor, tragic task
undesired? He never said. I never asked.
Roger Armbrust
May 26, 2020
