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Quan Loi (poem)

By Marc Levy

Like many grunts
I laced my dog tags in my boots.

Soon enough,
Dented, scratched, bent,
Locked in the curl
Of my blood types circle,
Crimped in my non-religion–
Engraved upper case,
Sheltering in the sum

Of my service number,
Even my name retains bits
Of crimson dust.
Day after day, patrols
Jungle, ambush, monsoon

Our blood and sorrows
Etched in Quan Loi's dusty red–
One by one our countless steps
Become our mud-laced epitaphs.

—Marc Levy