Twenty-two and ancient with
a limp, my handicap these dreams
of Alaskan tents and carbine rifles
slung like children at my hip; 
noisy cough of close artillery—
Lt. Lance Corporal William Miller.
Just Will now, to friends who never
ask what was it like and if
they did, and I could answer:
sea-green flares rupture 
ink-soaked desert skies
God was there, but not our God—
a man who prays upon his
knees no match for one who
prostrates on the ground, all
hardware useless against such
mammoth fervour. We knew that,
though we never said it—war lost
as soon as planes touched down. 
Now I’m home. Backyard litter—
lawn chairs, BBQ; it should be
quiet, it should be everything
and yet I hear it all; traffic
on the street, neighbour’s
kids, airplane overhead. I drink
too much and the wife softly
chides “You never hold the baby.”
Yet she of the soft diapers,
blue eyes and majestic skin
reminds of me of other babies;
Afghan mothers who tried to
press them in our arms, thinking
they’d be safe. How to tell them?
We are the destructors
Lazarus risen from the dead 
Judas trying to plant a kiss
Pilate, Herod, Roman soldier
soaking rags in vinegar to
parch a saviour’s lips: the
only villains that I know.
Once engaged in warfare
with the night I came out
here beneath spangled sky
and tried to pray like them,
forehead to the ground.
Yet still I was terrified, slung
low in foxholes where stars
make no familiar patterns
thinking: I am a good soldier
but I cannot be alone.