Minesweep on Highway 13 Near Lai Key

1968

 

Inch by inch, the minesweeper checks the road,

listening with his feet

placing his heel then toe down.

 

When his detector gleans a claymore,

it hisses, heavies his grip.

He stops us by holding up his hand.

 

The Captain tells us to stay off the road.

We look outward into the trees

and columns of yellow grass.  Sometimes, we glance down

 

the road at tank tracks, fresh holes

behind us, claymores he already found.

And everything still feels lucky

 

when he pinpoints the spot.

He sets down the detector and kneels; the headphones

droop over his helmet, static and clicks in ears.

 

We stiffen up when he pulls out his knife

drags lines around the mine.

The minesweeper works the blade like he was blind.

 

He looks away, and feels blade skimming the sides

and draw a circle. Metal clinks metal; he moves

the knife under the mine where dirt resumes. As he lifts

 

the claymore, no one sees the grenade underneath.

He disappears into a rain of dirt.

We duck instinctively.  Hands cover faces

 

as dirt and debris falls in a cruel hush.  That quiet

that comes after echoes the blast.  Nobody

ever finds a trace of the minesweeper.

 

Every day afterward knocks us down

like every cigarette smoked and smashed under our boots.

We hold every bite of food

 

and bit of water we swallow,

bitterly holding onto the shame of being alive.