Absolute Zero

Black laser eyes, Shannon, always looking
for unfriendlies. They found you once under
that tree in Angola. Neat drop; but the rocket
was only teasing: just knocked out your antenna.
You woke under cool, clean sheets with a roaring
in your head. You couldn’t hear the breaths of
mourning in the halls beyond your room. That’s OK,
they weren’t mourning for you.

We’d find each other in tropical bars.
All the same: cockroaches, rotting wood,
hungry looks. Sweat and rum. Cautious glances,
feeling out, probing, making contact,
keeping at least two routes open.

Plans, action, but no more war.
Take what we know and strike it big.
Some kind of salvage job; who knows?
But there’s always war, Shannon;
perimeters of opinion; immortal historians
keeping details, tactics of sofa-jockeys
thinking they won’t die.

Yah, I know about Angola: No ammo, no war.
Cubans are shit soldiers. It was a set-up.
When the widows were paid, you bummed home.
I bought the beer, remember?
Sleazy poolside bar, boat bums, narcs, pretenders,
moist little girls with quaalude eyes.
Everyone watching everyone
figuring somebody knows.

You forgot our plans and went back
carrying some furry gnawing from the inside.
In Hong Kong, slugging down beer on a yacht
bartered for blood, a dude with napalm hair
told me they got you—Burundi I think.

His Rhodesian Army T-shirt seemed like
advertising Dunkirk. He had that look:
too much action—not enough.
He remembered you were intense.
Said it a couple of times: intense.
Said it like you scared him     

Said you thought the Army was just playing
politics and you weren’t going to lose another one
that way, so you walked into the bush alone.
Chasing death–as if you could scare it off.
Like some pharaoh, you forgot the gift and played
the percentages: death has perfect odds.

I see you clear as a novel, near sundown,
hunkered on some high real estate, looking
like a rock or an old tree stump; dying for a
smoke, bug-eyed on caffeine. Across
that plain of dull reds and brittle violets,
the spearchuckers play at the edge of old
truths, pretending the lion aren’t gone for good.

They know you’re near–their hearts beat a dance 
of war–eyes dart in fearecstasy.
Quiet, you slide back the bolt of your FAL; your
thoughts, gentle circles so they can’t feel you.

Was it a child on innocent feet you couldn’t hear;
a heart you couldn’t sense? Small hands, like a girl’s,
holding grandfather’s single-shot .22 with reverence.
Did you know it was done? Did you see the faces;
feel the tiny hole open in your cerebellum
and the universe fall in, easily.

I sit here sweating by the pool in this sad bar
sipping a rum, being watched, making plans.
What the hell was the point? What the hell did we learn?
What did you teach me, Shannon, sprawled out there
in the dust, under the last bit of light
cold as the cold of motionlessness.

.

Doug Sherr, Bio: I spent most of my adult life traveling the planet as a professional sailor and filmmaker which brought me into contact with spies, mercenaries, killers, and selfless people who would help a friend or a stranger even at risk to themselves. Meeting these people gave me a feeling for the vast palate of choices we make.