War correspondent – Retired

Wash water, wash water
Wet these hands, these death-calling hands
Whose adrenalized fingers strangle-hold guilt.
Wend through the creases, the arthritic creases
Wherefrom a war-witness pen once
Wrote others’ fate in indigo blood, on a
Wide-ruled page

Wash water, wash water
Wash the recoiling hair, the worry-grey hair
Where the sweat-smelling helmet
Wore pressure marks into sweat-pricked skin
While all-seeking, all-killing missiles
Whistled, while they
Worked

Wash water, wash water
Whet this mouth, this mid-scream mouth, because
Whisky, with its throat burning
Ways cannot burn away the burning
Waft of burning flesh for all my
Wishing that it
Would

Wash water, wash water
Wash this body, this fear-rigoured body
Which still stands attention in soft chairs
Worlds away from the hunkering bunkering
War-writing weapon that once
Wore indirect tracks over un-made roads, just to
Write stories.

Wash water, wash water
Wash these streets.
Wash this earth.
Wash my mind.

Bryson Thomas