Poet Bob Clawson wrote the LYRICAL: “I hope the poem speaks for itself, the casualties being not only the son and the father, but also any semblance of military dignity that might have preceded our wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, back when we used the draft to assemble fighting units rather than hiring mercenary killers.  That’s a heavy load for a little poem to carry, but most veterans I know get it and I, myself, still find it chilling when I read it.”

Robert J. Clawson

Casualties

In wars past, son,

soldiers found it hard to kill,

so the brass developed fields of fire:

nothing personal, no act of will…

like a firing squad

where no shooter knows

whose bullet pierced

the brain as the skull blows.

I don’t understand this shit

Dad.   Haaji in my sights?

I’m a hair-trigger fucker.

I get off when the bullet bites.

— Robert J. Clawson

(This week’s poem  previously appeared in Consequence magazine.)

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