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Devil’s food?

Phil
    Dear Cheryl,
    Â 
    Mama mined it.
    Â 
    Wrapped a bomb and
a baby in a blanket.
Blew two grunts to
smither-fuckin’-eens.
    Â 
    Whoever heard of a baby booby-trap?
    Â 
    Capt’n says we’re fighting Commies
so our sons and daughters can crap
in a flush toilet.
    Â 
    All I want to do is come home in one piece
and make babies and live a quiet life in a
time and place without war.
    Â 
    With love, Phil
    Â 
    P.S. I hope I never get used to this.

Cheryl
    It’s unreal, like a movie, or photos in the newspaper, or Hollywood
actors, although I know that’s not true, not really, but it’s easier, safer,
to think of them as fake soldiers touched up with makeup, red-dye
blood, it is easier, was easier, to pretend the war is a movie, but I know
it’s real, because Phil’s real, and his letters are real, and now I wish I’d
been paying more attention to all the Gunthers and Phils on the news,
and I’ve decided to spend six months allowance on books of tickets for
Disneyland and I’m going to tear out all the “E” tickets for Phil. ...

Phu Bai Vietnam
    Cold C-ration breakfast.
Pack up.
Move out.
    Â 
    Cold C-ration lunch,
ham and lima beans,
warmed on an exhaust
manifold.
    Â 
    March.
    Â 
    Frag grenades.
Body count.
    Â 
    Another crappy meal.

Mickey
    USS Hermitage LSD-34 DEEP SHIT
    Â 
    Dear Cheryl,
    Â 
    I’m up to my ass now.
    Â 
    First, on the way back from Bermuda
I got caught sleeping on watch. Second,
I got in a fight in the chow line and was taken
straight to the Executive Officer’s stateroom.
    Â 
    He said, “This is it sailor. No more chances.”
    Â 
    Then I got busted drinking on a phony ID
and spent the night in jail. The next morning
I was right back up here.
    Â 
    Guess I won’t get liberty for a while.
    Â 
    Love, Mickey
    Â 
    P.S. My new girlfriend says I’m a godless alcoholic.
That slays me!

Ziggy
    cheryl,
    Â 
    this is the last page in my journal and i wanted to tell you that i don’t
know why i did it—it wasn’t about mickey or don or me—mostly it
wasn’t about me because i’m nothing and that proves it because only
a nothing would do what i did in the gas station and then something
like that to her best friend—and i don’t expect you or god to forgive
me because i’ll never forgive myself—but i saw your mom at the
store and she looked so happy and i know it’s because she’s in love
and married a nice man and i think it’s about time someone in our
crowd was happy and i’m extra glad it’s you.
    Â 
    me

Phil
    Darvon Date.
    Â 
    White powder buffers a tiny pink pill
inside a red and white capsule. The infirmary
prescribes them instead of aspirin.
    Â 
    Supposed to be better for our guts, since
we drink like fish and eat street crap.
    Â 
    I split the hulls,
stash the pills,
trash the rest.
    Â 
    Pretty and pink, she sinks into a
red, white, and blue-edged envelope.
I free her with my tongue, chase her
down with warm beer.
    Â 
    A perfect girlfriend who knows how
to take my mind off everything that’s
happening here.

Nancy
    Professor James is wearing a Betty Crocker
apron, brandishing a broom, lecturing on the
general unhappiness of women in our society.
    Â 
    He says television and movies, newspapers
and magazines, schools and even our
parents are manipulating us into thinking
    Â 
    housewife is synonymous with occupation .
    Â 
    He says women are victims of a false belief
system that expects us to find meaning in our
lives through our husbands and raising children.
    Â 
    â€œHousework can be done by any 8-year-old,”
he says, trading the broom for a paperback,
The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan.
    Â 
    â€œWho would like to borrow it?”
    Â 
    I raise my hand.

Cheryl
    Phil’s in Nam.
Not Nancy.
Not Ziggy.
Not me.
    Â 
    Why? Anatomy?
Ejaculator versus baby maker?
Does that make him