brand-new, still sealed in plastic wrap,
pile them in the back of the truck.
The dip bulges from LTs lip and I imagine
bullets against the truck
like horizontal rain.
four men shot
six Iraqi soldiers dead
as they slept on cots,
dragged outside the checkpoint hut
because it was too hot.
At the Jalula hospital, traffic stops. Men smoke
in white dishdashas that wave
in the wind like bed sheets. From the hills,
a Black Hawk rises. We close eyes,
cover faces, not wanting to feel
flying pieces of earth. Four men run
the first body to the chopper;
it bounces on the green gurney
beneath an IV bag held
by a hand to the sky.
To read more poems by Hugh Martin, purchase the Spring 2012 issue.