The Helmet

It lay there
One edge imbedded
At crooked cant
In much disturbed sand
Half a yard from the road
Half a world from its home
Who knows for how long
Deceptively mottled
Rendered indistinct
From its grim dun surround
Of gritty ground and
Shapeless mounds
Apt detritus
One more lifeless feature
Of a barren baked landscape
That’s never known peace
This artifact of war
Not really belonging
Yet not out of place

Whose was the head
It last endowed armor
The head whose sweat swelled
And stained its sewn webbing
What judgments of duty
Enjoined its young wearer
Were they frenzied and frightened
Or steadfast and stoic
With chinstrap pulled taut
And goggles sharp set
For the myriad threats
Of jihad in the desert
What convictions conjoined
Love of life, fear of death
In this overly hot
Kevlar carapace
Right up to the moments
Before being pitched
From victory’s path

Where is the soldier
Who left it behind
Careless or killed
Or just maybe both
That uncertain status
A mirror, an echo
Presaging how history
May gauge the outcome
Will Augustine’s test
Validate bellum iustum
Will triumph be touted
As nobly complete
Or will failure by way of
Abortion of mission
Haunt and harrow the marrow
In the bones of the brave
This drab mundane piece
Of muted regalia
Now lost of purpose, just waits

I bent to retrieve it
Thought better, then stopped
And so let it be
This artifact of war
Not really belonging
Yet not out of place
It’s no souvenir