Eliza Turrill Poetry



He had been to Iraq.

He squeezed the trigger

on people whose names

he didn’t even know:

fathers, uncles, brothers.


But, it wasn’t the carnage

he remembered, not the blood

or the bombs, the hundred degree heat.


His memory

was of a man driving a car chassis.

There were wheels and an engine,

but no body.


Can that even be legal?

He asks.

He had an afro out to here!

He gestures with his hands.

And you know what he was listening to?

Short pause.

70s disco music.

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