So I’m in a haze
sitting on my couch
about to masturbate when,
on the TV BBC starts
to tell the story
of the Russian boy
who was beaten
so badly by his fellow solders
that the doctors
had to amputate
both his legs and genitals.
Once I said, I’d like to chop off
the sociopathic
portion of myself
that my nonchalant
father sowed.
But now I realize -
the wound would be to much.
This kid, he's just a kid.
The armies know
if you torture a boy
he will pass that torch.
On this occasion,
brutality was particularly
sloppy: what kind of soldier is he now.
Which comrade
carried him to the infirmary? What
did they do
to that stir-eyed boy, that
cutting so much
was the best solution
the physicians could find?
Does he drag himself
around the dark memories
trying to find his lost legs? His soul
surveying the lengths,
counting the half laps.
How am I
just sitting here?
Some portion
of myself
that I can’t find
wants to cry.
Six months he served,
that’s all, then
he was opened
and returned,
like a package
they didn’t want,
all taped up.
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