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| Three soldiers from the North burned for reasons of sanitaion. Arms shrunk to seal flippers Charred buttocks thrust skyward They burned for five days. It was hard to swallow, difficult to eat with the sweet smoke of seared flesh, like fog everywhere. Twenty-five years later they burn still. Across seas of time, the faint unwelcome odor rises in odd places. With a load of leaves at the city dump, A floating wisp of smoke from the burning soldiers mingles with the stench of household garbage. Once, while watching young boys kick a soccer ball, The Death Smell filled my lungs. As I ran, choking panic unfolded fluttering wings of fear and remorse. A narrow escape. A letter snatched from the flames the day we burned them is hidden away in a shoe box. With gag birthday cards, Buttons, rubber bands, A letter from home? The Oriental words, Delicately formed, Are still a mystery. --Bill Jones-- |