LORRAINE MCGUIGAN

Listening to War Poems as I Garden

The poetry of war is in the air. Passing
cars backfire but my garden is no battlefield;
I fight weeds, although snails do surrender.

And now this poem’s chilling reminder,
the child Kim Phuc, her skin in ribbons,
screaming Nong qua nong qua*

The road stretches before her as she runs.
I dig deeper into earth, tug at ivy, stuff
the waste in a black plastic bag, pull

the cord tightly at its neck. A plane
overhead. TV pictures come to mind:
journeys home, coffins flag-draped,

while on tarmacs the living stand by.
The poems continue: voices of poets at war
with war. Later I wash my hands carefully.

* Nong qua nong qua: Too hot too hot in Vietnamese