Phong hit the ground
Within a second of the sound
Of the gunshot that laid him down
Loosened the grip on his own weapon
At the moment of impact
It fell with a thud
Next to his body in the mud
When his head hit the hard earth
He heard thunder and saw light
The bullet in the North Vietnames man's skull was made in America
Loaded by The Poet earlier that afternoon
Along with the rest of his ammo
In the second after Phong died
Poet lowered his sight
And came to an abrupt and awkward halt
There was no denying the man was hit
Even less to prove the man was dead
The hole in the back of the metal helmet
Was the same size as the hole in the back of the dead man's head
Instinct bred caution even so
As The Poet slowly tread the fifteen yards
Between where he stood and where Phong lay
He crouched down
Rolled him over slowly
Placed his fingers on the corpse's eyelids
(I know you can see me)
Shut them gently
(May the darkness be your savior)
The Poet took the bayonet knife bolstered at his side
Pressing down on Phong's shoulder
He cut an incision between the man's chest muscles
With a gentle sawing he cut through tendons and bone
Until a trough had formed
A six inch baptismal filled with blood
Still almost warm as life
The Poet plunged his left hand deep into the pool
Grabbed hold of Phong's heart and tugged
He caught the resistance of the arteries
And severed them
With the knife in his right hand
Raising the dripping organ to his nose
The poet inhaled deeply the strange odor
Inspiration teased
Quickly The Poet brought Phong's heart to his mouth
With a huge bite his mouth was full
His brain felt as it would explode
The drama and the dreams of the whole world
He chewed and savored the flavor
He had come to appreciate it during his time in the jungle
As well the firm gelatinous texture
The saltiness of the blood
This was The Poet's reward
With the last swallow he wiped his hands on Phong's shirt
He felt a piece of paper folded in the right pocket
A letter, written in Vietnamese
And though he didn't know the language
Somehow a few sentences made sense
"Confessor
My soul is tormented
I am a liar
My wicked heart has made me do despicable things
Words and actions without regard
Of consequences
Things that would hurt people, if they only knew
If they knew what I have done
They would rise against me and do murder
I would deserve whatever punishment they saw fit
For I am a renegade poet
And I have lost all respect for the art"
As he finished reading the page
The Poet felt nausea in his gut
He dropped the paper
Bent over and vomited
He heaved several times until his stomach was empty
Then he just stood there, hands on knees
Staring at the mess
(I have a message for all mankind)
He forced himself to look at it
Until inspiration left him
He reached for his gun
Stood up and walked to Phong's rifle
Bent to pick it up as well
Strapping it to his side
The Poet walked away
As a gentle breeze blew the confession
Far from Phong's lonesome body
