A pilot accidentally fired a missile,
killed ten Afghan civilians going about their lives,
seven of them children, the photograph
of the grieving mother, arms pleading with the sky,
morphs into the napalmed, screaming girl
Phan Thi Kim Phuc, now an old woman in much pain,
fleeing on a Vietnam road so long ago.
Missiles have human brains and the mind
who misfired had to know
the air they breathed was always death.
What would he tell himself?
Was he hard-hearted? Murderous?
Was he truly defending his country?
When the heart behind the trigger finger
realized who he had killed,
was there any way he could make
this tragedy more significant
than the entire long and useless war?
Could he stand to look at the aftermath of his error?
Would that scene be printed and framed
next to his family photo on the bedroom bureau?
No, that image burned in his mind.
Originally published in The Taj Mahal Review