The Uniform

Marvin Bell

Of the sleeves, I remember their weight, like wet wool,

on my arms, and the empty ends which hung past my hands.

Of the body of the shirt, I remember the large buttons

and larger buttonholes, which made a rack of wheels

down my chest and could not be quickly unbuttoned.

Of the collar, I remember its thickness without starch,

by which it lay against my clavicle without moving.

Of my trousers, the same—heavy, bulky, slow to give

for a leg, a crowded feeling, a molasses to walk in.

Of my boots, I remember the brittle soles, of a material

that had not been made love to by any natural substance,

and the laces: ropes to make prisoners of my feet.

Of the helmet, I remember the webbed, inner liner,

a brittle plastic underwear on which wobbled

the crushing steel pot then strapped at the chin.

Of the mortar, I remember the mortar plate,

heavy enough to kill by weight, which I carried by rope.

Of the machine gun, I remember the way it fit

behind my head and across my shoulder blades

as I carried it, or, to be precise, as it rode me.

Of tactics, I remember the likelihood of shooting

the wrong man, the weight of the rifle bolt, the difficulty

of loading while prone, the shock of noise.

For earplugs, some used cigarette filters or toilet paper.

I don’t hear well now, for a man of my age,

and the doctor says my ears were damaged and asks

if I was in the Army, and of course I was but then

a wounded eardrum wasn’t much in the scheme.