The Discotheque
Brian Turner
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Loaded down with prisoners after another night’s raid
we pulled into the airbase in Mosul, the men
gagged, zip-tied, blindfolded with engineer tape.
Forsman ate a Snickers bar up in the hatch
while everybody else slept shoulder to shoulder,
First Platoon’s radio silent of chatter, humming in static.
I held a 9 mm pistol in my hand and watched
how the prisoner’s heads slumped in resignation,
one of them mumbling in a slow rocking of prayer.
And I didn’t feel a thing. I just wanted to sleep.
I wanted to wake up and find myself
in California, anywhere else but here.
We turned them over to the MPs, who looked bored
of caffeine and paperwork, and I filled out the depositions
while the Iraqis were shunted into the wire holding pens.
And I remember complaining once about the Discotheque,
that nearby container I mistook for an on-base club—
Where the pogues chill out, I said, those fucking pogues.
From that metal box shrouded in a camouflage netting
I never heard the screaming. I never heard the breaking of men.
I heard only music. Guitars in their distorted horns.
