Mercenary Poem

The Soldier of Misfortune

Vicente Bandillo

How shall I fix my sentiments? I had wanted to go up the mountains to join them, but here I am, in the thick of the reception at the old house, and they are attacking us. After the engagement, which we win, I am much too engrossed in contemplating the sanctions of a man’s world that I dismiss ideologies as a frivolity.

Later, at a celebration of life and victory in the courtyard of dust, the president and my brother-in-law are having a boxing match. They are the same height, although the head-of-state is older. I wish my brother in law would knock him down, and later I would still bear the shame of my shallow loyalties. What does it help that I carry a gun? Inside me I know I am only myself, a hangman waiting for his chance to turn up this lusty commission.

So that when I get home, I accept that nothing can make me happy, or understand. This note is taped on the bedroom mirror:

Dancing the tango in the glass hall,
your wife slipped and broke her hip.
No need to be alarmed. She’s under
a special care and melodious
attention of a specialist. Housewives,
be vigilant: save on empty milk cans.
Hang them from the ceiling like mini-
chandeliers planted to waterlilies.

What is life? asked the idiot. As for me I shall take up my arms and run along. I shall wake to my body rotting on the damp peninsula of dreams, forgetful, unimpressed.