Shouldering his rifle, jerking the laces
Of his boots tight enought to cut
The circulation to his toes. And he shoots
As though it's personal, lips curled
outwards
Squares his hips and narrows his eyes
Watches as the
blood flowers, vivid, on his
Enemies' khaki shirt fronts,
moves on.
He is used to the spit of bullets, now,
Used to
the low thrum in his ears and the way
His fingers hurt after each
kill, downplays it,
Discusses the dead, wounded, missing with
The
pacific air of someone
Commenting on the weather.
Perhaps he is
a monster, but perhaps
He can already taste the gas and know
The
bite of sharp, small blue pellets
Littering the skin that could
have been his
Drawn, taut, naked, choked with heat
A thousand
bodies to every three chemical raindrops
Perhaps he is a
monster, he shoots with ease
Aplomb, even, carves notches into
the
Butt of his rifle and waits to finally meet
The stench of
gas on the other side of
That thin red line that they draw on all the maps.