Ignacio Knew

the metallic finality,
that click, what it meant,

the booby-trap now armed,
if he flexed his foot,

coughed, or relaxed
it would turn his legs

to splintered bone,
hang intestines

like jungle vines
in mango trees.

Ignacio knew
that look on Mad Dog’s face

meant it was the end:
of crotch-rot

and warm, long-neck
Budweisers after patrol,

humid days enduring
the lieutenant’s mindless orders,

starless nights worrying why
Maria had stopped writing,

images of that burning village,
smoke obscuring

the little girl’s splayed
body, blood pooling

right where he shot her.
Ignacio knew

there was only one remedy.
He closed his eyes,

slowly exhaled,
and stepped away.