The Grenade

John Monagle

 

I see the wide desert terrain.

I see my buddy slump in the driver’s seat.

I see the blood flow down his green shirt.

I see my hand reach into his shirt.

I see my hand stop as it feels the bullet hole

                in his chest.

I see two Iraqis guerillas in a pick-up truck,

                stop next to my truck.

I see the two Iraqis look into my truck,

                then talk to each other.

I see my hand grab the collar of my buddy’s shirt.

                and pull him from the driver’s seat.

I see my buddy fall limply to the passenger floorboard.

I see my hand turn the ignition and my foot

                depress the gas pedal as my truck slowly moves forward.

I see the Iraqi truck move along my side.

 

I see the grenade leave the hand

                of the Iraqis in the passenger seat.

I see the grenade fly through his window.

I see the grenade fly towards my window.

I see the grenade fly through my window.

I see the grenade bounce off the seat

                and land on my dead buddy.

I see the grenade explode.

I see shrapnel fly in every direction.

I see a piece fly towards my chest, the shrapnel.

I see the piece touch my shirt, the shrapnel.

I see the piece rip my shirt, the shrapnel.

I see the piece touch my skin, the shrapnel.

I see the piece penetrate my skin, the shrapnel.

I see the piece disappear into my chest, the shrapnel.

I see black.

 

***

John Monagle resides in Las Cruces, New Mexico. He retired from working at The Library of Congress, and graduated from Vermont College of Fine Arts with a MFA in creative writing, specializing in poetry. I’ve had numerous poems published in a variety of journals, most recently in Sin Fronteras, Voices, and Verse of Silence.