TRIAGE
(Dedicated to the nurses of the Vietnam War)
by Laurie Kash
 
Sometimes it was just a mouth
speaking to you of their girlfriends
        or mothers
It was always the mothers they asked for
before they would die.
 
Sometimes it was just the eyes
looking into you
asking if they were doomed
their limbs left behind to haunt the woods,
and what pieces remained of them
you yearned to kiss or touch.
 
Who could believe God would have
handed me such a chore.
I grew up in Pittsburgh
riding the streets on a skateboard;
sorting through the casualties here in Nam
like so much bitter fruit.
 
Sometimes they were blind
their noses sniffed your perfume
above their own burnt flesh
such small luxuries the dying
were known to plead.
 
Oh sure, I could have cried
sorting out who lives, who dies
but it never came out
I remained a severed leaf
floating on a lake of tears.
 
Sometimes I thought their souls
were stitched together
hovering over my tent
their mouths and eyes burned
through the canvass
and scorched me on my cot.
 
I apologized to their grotesque faces,
"I had to let you go."
 
Often now in St. Louis
their souls stitched together like a net
trawled from evil's depths
their phantom limbs
hover above my bed.
Leave me, I tell them
It has been twenty years
but, they stay there like a long winter
that won't go away.
 
They want me to explain to them
why they had to die
they are so insistent in knowing
why men are so unkind.
 

Laurie Kash is an acupuncturist and a lover and protector of nature who writes both poetry and fiction. She resides in Rochester, NY after having lived for many years in Manhattan, and she is a frequent traveler who looks to help improve the many communities she visits. Laurie may be reached by email at lckash@yahoo.com