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.
