Newsweek

There is a picture of you, Nameless Man,
On the corner of this spread and I study
your face

Your knuckles curled under, your knees pressed to
The ground, your rifle pointing forward

Bullets strung in strands around your chest, around your
Waist in rounds
Their heads facing upward – a time of death, an enemy's name
Stamped across each of their metal tips

And God knows you will aim for their heart, for their brain,
For the places where the life is

And if you make it back alive, Nameless Man,
You will stand proud beneath your flag
Your soul lost in the corpses and shells

(They say that “war kills them all”)