smsteele
the poet sneaks behind Sgt Major’s back, disobeys his orders, uses the cooks’ blue rocket & washes her hair with contraband hot water! – notebook #4 smsteele
who are you | language poetry by smsteele
who are you
‘ sta maslak chishay da ? (what are you?)’ the ANA asked me. looked towards the translator, a weedy man with broken, rotting teeth. I carried no pistol, wore body armour. arrived in a tornado of Chinook dust with only a small pack. wore tan but no cammo. ‘poet’ I replied. my little moleskine tucked between my frag vest, my chest. ready. my black pen wedged between pages. the courtyard of the schoolhouse quiet in the way of all mid-day courtyards where the sun dictates.
‘ sha’ir ’ the translator told the skinny ranks clustered in a crescent around me.
‘ sha’ir. sha’ir ’ the Afghan soldiers nodded. smiled. turned and left.
a table of engineers playing cards looked up. resumed play.
7
poet. of course. poet. why wouldn’t these Canadians have a poet drop in on them?
this work is so damned undone.
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