Smoke Signals


We were children
when we
boarded those wide-bellied jets
to fly over the North Pole
and land in the jungles
of Vietnam . . .

filled with snakes,
booby traps,
and Charlie Cong.

The helicopters circled.
War drums.

Piles of dung
burned beside the road.
Fumes rising to mix
with the odor of death.

"Someone", an M.P. said,
"was sending smoke signals
to God."

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