Tonight's Poet Corner: Before the Battle

Before the Battle
by Belinda Roddie

"Sarge," he told me, "I'm baked. I'm
cooked, I'm boiled, I'm fried. You can
pop me in a coffin and sail me home. I ain't
gonna shoot one more gun in this stupid fight."
As he talked, he took a hit from his pipe.

"Boy," I replied, "when I was your age, I was
sitting on the front porch of my father's
house. The dust kicked around my skirt, and the
heat was killing me, absolutely killing me. And
I was ready to drop dead. You want to sleep in
a sarcophagus on a trip back to your homeland,
I won't stop you. But I'm staying here and spitting
bullets out from between my teeth." In trembling

fingers, I held the locket where my wife's photograph
sat comfortably, freed from its cushion beneath my
uniform tunic. I took no tags from my enemies. I painted
my face green to camouflage my sins. Back home, my
father was probably drinking while my mother pulled
a pie out of the oven. Baked. Dinner cooked. Potatoes
boiled. Conscience fried.