of ethnic duplicity
during an Iraqui
tour of duty
that became his
unliveable misery?
What did Shane see
just before the IED
when friendly faces
turned to meat, arms
and feet to gore, bloody
sores to gangrene and
disappearing body parts?
What did Shane see
when he couldn't sleep,
needed whiskey to keep
his anger under wraps,
when rap no longer
spoke survivor-guilt?
What did Shane see
when he struck his lady,
cursed his baby, when
the bright light of future
happiness went out?
What did Shane see, his
thoughts running aimlessly,
waiting for a motor's drone
to hone his weary brain
to empty bone before he
slept then died? A tunnel
of blinding yellow light,
scintilatingly bright?
White-hot night shocks
scorching off his socks?
An unbearable blare
blasting away all the air?
Nobody knows what
being Shane was like.
published in The Rockford Review
first published in The Rockford Review
©2014 Bonnie Manion