For Karen
"How dare you talk lightly," she asked,
"about Vietnam?"

and if I tell her that, can I tell her too
how minutes later we milled around
tourists with Instamatic cameras
gawking at the wreckage and the relics
laughing from relief looking at a million
tiny pieces of cocacola cans,
owners alive, and well,
shaking their fists in mocking threat to the mountains:
"Charlie, charlie, you got a direct hit:
on our bar!"

How can I tell her
about the helicopter that was coming in
when on board we heard the sound
it sounded like a firing range
at the wrong end
like a long time ago back at camp when we kept the scores
and it was great fun to signal "maggie's drawers"
with the red flag when they missed
only this time it wasn't maggie's drawers.
Somehow we stayed aloft
landed unhurt
and I cracked a joke observing
the natives were unfriendly.

How can I tell her
about driving on the road and passing
the hole where the children
got torn up the day before
on a VC mine
about driving on the road where the
mortar blew that truck
into little pieces
we'd gone that route a half hour before
and missed it and now
we were going that route again
past the pieces
and laughing
because it was funny we hadn't been killed
it was a gas.

How can I tell her
about the times, the many times
when all were gathered in requiem
about the nights in the clearing station
when the wounded were brought in
the nights by the radio
keeping anxious vigil
the walk out from the perimeter toward the contact
to carry stretchers back to safety
how can I tell her, and then tell too the time
they hit us and we all fell in the trenches
and I was laughing at the slogan on a buddy's helmet
it was so idiotic.

How can I tell her about
Christmas
when we went out on Official Business
with a case of whiskey
singing carols that afternoon
loud, but a little sloppy
like tears just beneath the surface
the sermon text about singing in a strange land
later waiting on the chopper pad
the burst of fire from hidden sniper
the grisly visage of the wounded pilot
the relief discovering the bullet only grazed his hand
the rest was blood.

How can I tell her
how you forget the things you don't want to remember
how there are things you don't think about
because it hurts
how when you forget the blood, the fear, the pain, the death
you have left
the warmth of people brought by circumstance
close
together
you have left
the moments in bunkers on the mountaintops
when you sat around and passed away the time
smoking endless cigarettes
telling stories
comparing Playmates
drinking beer, or coffee heated on blasting compound
(Light it, Mac, but for God's sake don't stamp on it)
and always in that crowded hole
finding a way to laugh.

Forgive me, honey, if I forget
the hell
Forgive me if I remember just
the warmth
and laughter.