I noticed that recently every book has

at least one character who’s gone to war—

on foot, on horseback, by chariot, by ship,

by tank, or plane—has been shattered by war,

Waterloo to Omaha Beach to Khe Sanh,

Hastings, Pusan, Pork Chop Hill, Mi Lai to Gaza,

the question not whether that soldier has been

wounded, because every soldier surely is wounded,

whether or not the soldier’s cheek is scarred,

whether or not the soldier has a prosthetic limb,

and can’t settle back to a normal life if such

exists, after a sniper attack, ambush, bombing raid,

with a spear, a sword, a gun, bayonet, grenade,

IED, killing other young people and women

and children and can’t possibly live with

the knowledge they’ve killed, the faces,

the accidents, confusion, collateral damage,

knowing, maybe always, since Korea at least, that

the reasons for the conflict, if it can be called

a conflict, are usually not the soldier’s own,

often needing to justify their participation—

say they have to protect their buddies,

keep them alive, and how little sense

war makes when the planet is dying.