The Infirmary

Out of Bien Hoa

23 o U t o f B i e n h o a at the repot Depot out of Bien hoa a thousand bowels american roll in each day, shithouses toe the tarmac, afternoon tin splinters the eye. mchenry and i lift the flaps, wheel the half-barrels out. i stir with a paddle, he pours on the fuel oil, lights and relights the shit. “D’ya think you hear the bullet if you’re shot in the head?” “i suppose,” he says, “ya hear it knocking on the door— but when you go to answer you’re not even there.” knee-deep in the barrel, i’m stirring, he’s pouring the oil, and i can’t find the sun for the black smoke that rolls off the pile. ...