Public Domain Poetry And Stories - Every Man's Hand by Paul Cameron Brown
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Every Man's Hand

    By Paul Cameron Brown



    raised against them
    hussars, cossacks, zouaves
    the renegade janizaries and corsairs
    in for an indeterminale stretch
    assorted soldiers of furtune,
    never-do-wells
    or just low brows duelling crusts of bread
    scarce precious little else
    when for pennies more,
    (Wellington's phrase)
    the scum of the earth
    enlists for drink.

    Too harsh, I think, of
    imagining the Foreign Legion,
    kepis of scarlet
    the near requisite haggard looks
    moving in waves across the desert
    pitting date palms with bayonets.
    the occasional fellow ravaged by French pox.

    Then dunes where water should be    -
    storms granulating blown particles
    twice the perimeter of a camel train
    from whence decent men become driven
    (as the desert fox) to crouch beside themselves
    with poor material,
    loose flintlocks and cartridge belts
    rotting to the touch,

    The pitched camp (I see brackish oasis glare)
    stars big as pebbles in potato white
    Napoleon before Cairo his soldiery and
    ragged tents flapping like tongues
    of pillaging Arabs (or later battlefield carrion wolves)
    on the run from Allah and sweet date wine,
    their torpid hooves sound against rock
    matching wits grown sluggish in still more drifting
    sand.

    Noon and blood purring
    like a two minute egg
    over and over
    the spitting, curses
    mandatory flies and sweat
    trickling on sandbags
    from manured lives
    little to eat -
    C rations a century away,
    the good populace begrudging meals
    to vagabonds and trash anyway.

    See the last desperation
    in classic terms
    betrayed by finite trength

    brisk elements raise the odds
    a measly temperature climb,
    a few more driving winds to stir the pot
    animal suffering dancing
    like stretched canvas on thin frames.

    The leading roustabout unflinching,
    waves a stony mutineer's salute.
    And somehow it always manages dawn
    and the heat of the day wicked,
    oblong in an empty stretch
    forever, it seems, before bullets
    open graveyards
    mow the brigand down,
    take the corpse for its own
    mummifying with precious hands
    about the contours of her desert body,
    and firm cleavage
    oscillating between curvatures of
    desiccation, blanket heat.



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