A REMOTE DETONATION / image by Amalie Flynn
Sudoku
Death? She’s your final lover, playing
the numbers of this cosmic game—set
between lines on an overlaid map
of patrol routes winding through wadis
deserted in Iraq—here’s shrapnel
fragment: zone 3, row 2, column 1.
The first time she came, she was like fire-
crackers: pounding down the dirt, skirting
the stack with sweat and AK rounds.
Chute down and right 2 columns. Death swears
she’ll never betray me; promises we’ll
be together soon—gives me dysentery.
she’ll never betray me; promises we’ll
be together soon—gives me dysentery.
She keeps me at a distance, shitting
in Gatorade buckets on post. She’s
such a tease not to finish me off.
Humbling me, she pulls the ego from
my chest: a puzzle I tried to solve,
but I couldn’t get the numbers right.
The 9’s looked like electrical wire
sticking out sandbags of IEDs—
she was a remote detonation
sticking out sandbags of IEDs—
she was a remote detonation
at the town square’s edge, jacking my head
off at block 8, row 7, column 6—
click. We made the news at 5 today.
The TV in this dusty bardo
switches from news to daily numbers—
Play? What for? Where are you, Habibti?
