My Former Student
Sits in a turret in Baghdad. Films the city, his rifle
tip in every shot, to show the kids back home
what it looks like before he kills. Saves it on his ipod.
Iraqis like mites between him and the thin, desert steel.
Everything translucent and vermined. The unstainable
barrel burns cold. In his mouth, the orange taste
of detention hall. His fingers consider the lives that enter
his gun sights, their failures, their bread.
Their shirts are stained with what could be blood.
He carries what belongs to the brain
and what is alien to it.