Ghazal of the Sucking Chest Wound
Dennis Mahagin

During insurgent ambush when 44th mortar round hit,
Angel of Death appeared between my legs as Loretta Swit.

She sucked my half-soft cock, with wind sock sighs,
Mouthfuls of platitudes and morphine syrettes.

There in Holy Land bath of mud-blood, I rasped chunks of
Lung tissue through loose teeth chattering like castanets.

“Shhh,” Loretta said, though I was, by then, already dead—
MOTHERFUCKERS!—I could’ve been a lover, not

Fish-white belly up vet.

Please pack my short-time effects—as sea chest tube socks
Next to a nest of purple medals, vital organs, ghosts of

the unborn, and other assorted regrets.