Dead soldier squeezed
against his civilian threads,
beer buzzing like an IED.
Fallujah was a hellhole,
he slurs at everyone—
sober and shit-faced. Spent
a night in Saddam’s palace.
Got no sleep—just counted
rounds from 50 calibers—
dreaming about Kuwait, that
goddam vacation. He surveys
the hums and clicks of the fan
before falling on his comrade,
shrapnel glints across the bar. This
place sounds like it’s gonna blow,
he laughs. Head thrown back,
hands locked around another
empty, he breathes. Good. Fuck it.
Abigail Carl-Klassen’s work has appeared in ZYZZYVA,Cimarron Review, Guernica, Aster(ix)
