Uncle Mike’s Minefield, Korea 1953 We came upon boots and bones Heels and toes together As if at attention. As if this Unknown Soldier, Grown jaded of War, Had wanted to sleep it off. While Sergeant went for help, I lit a Pall Mall and reached For a small bone, a finger Perhaps that resisted. Pried it from frozen ground Cleaned it with my bayonet. As I cleared more mud away, I discovered bits of rotting fabric Rusted with blood, An arm band, tattered and dirty Bearing the Medic’s Red Cross One of our own was he. A second trove turned out to be His wallet with Army ID, A driver’s license from Minnesota, Pictures of people in front of a Sturdy, red-bricked house And a letter I did not read. How long would it be before They learned that their son Was no longer MIA, but KIA? Their hope hopeless, prayers wasted? I nodded at my skeleton For, he was mine then. Imagined him heeding screams for help Stumbling and crashing down the hill With no thought for mines. Did he die instantly, or linger fatally Wounded, calling Medic, Medic, To himself? I gazed over the valley At the hills all covered In an icy white-blue frost Nothing stirring A Christmas scene In this killing field. Why don’t we? Wade across the valley to meet in the rising mist. Share cigarettes, swap souvenirs, admire family Photographs. Find a common language. Why don’t we? Walk away together, wherever our hearts take us So that when the call to arms sounds on the battlefield, There’s no one there to hear. previously published in The Ogham Stone, 2016