ROBERT BOHM

Letter to Aaron two months after his discharge

We took a ville two hours ago. 
Am on watch in a hootch now.  A dead woman
with rice-white hair sits in the corner, back
propped against the wall.   
To my left through the door, flames
billow like an illuminated mind through woods, fields, 
as if the brain needs more info
about the dividing line between
what burns and what doesn't. 
The horses will be running at Belmont soon, right? 
You once told me, 
“There’s no science for predicting winners, losers.” 
You ever think maybe there's not even a science for predicting
what a winner or a loser is?
War's screwed my head on tighter
than it was before. I have a better sense
of what make sense:
I never ate a mango before coming here
and now that I've eaten many I can't recall the taste.   
Although I don't know why, what I do recall
is the music on my grandpa’s Victrola
when I was a kid. 
He liked classical and when
I was 5 or 6, sometimes after he put on a record
I'd hear a sound I liked but didn't know
what made it, so I'd ask him
what instrument's that?
One time he answered, "Bassoon."
When I repeated the word, it felt
good in my mouth.
It still does.
Often these days, I say it out loud to myself in order to relax
when we're in country. Then
I keep traipsing forward,
trying to believe
aware of everything.