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Letter of Resignation // David Saitzeff Grossman

Stoically, I've inhaled the motes,
sir, the flaked skin kicked up
by your tacitly approving
nods as you've watched
me tying off my tourniquet,
unable to communicate
while I use my teeth and right
hand, having already gnawed
off my left, then the forearm,
because you'd lost yours fighting
the sort of war I had the sense
to avoid. I thought, I rationalize,
if I sacrifice my own I'll understand
and, finally, so might you; but
the tourniquet is soaked
with the same browning blood
that is caked where my teeth
meet my gums, and dangling threads
of tethered gauze tremble
with every frenetic breath
because I am neither soldier
nor medic, and we've lost too
much of my blood, sir. Our wounds
look similar, but are not, in truth.
The air is thick with copper-
tasting selves. You will
soldier on and live forever,
but general – doctor –, I squirm
on the gurney, laughing in terrific
pain at pain, and see a light
my mind shouts to the nerve
endings it chose to betray
is surgical, but I swear is not
of – or long – for your world.