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certainly no longer idealistic. We only moved forward when we were forced to. It was the systematic strafing campaign aimed at flushing out rebel soldiers hiding in the forest, a campaign that rained bombs on us, turning the forest into an inferno that made us leave. When we headed off, it was in the direction I have just come from.
    I look around a little confused that there is no evidence of the bombing. The forest is lush and green. Is it possible that it grew back so fully so quickly? Things are off and I can’t quite place why. It’s like having something stuck in my teeth just out of reach of my tongue: irritating. What’s the use of hurrying things; it will come when it comes. I have other things to worry about, things more concrete.
    I fall asleep under the truck I’ve been digging by, while all around a gentle rain falls, and I don’t dream of the child’s head; in the distance heavy artillery fire approaches. But for now I sleep.
    Full of fish.

Love Is a Backhanded Stroke
to the Cheek
    It is a curious experience—to be inside your dream and outside it, lucid and yet sleeping deeply. But in this war so much has happened to make even this seem normal. I dream of Ijeoma and the night I lost my virginity to her. It is true that I had already had sex by then: John Wayne had forced me to rape someone, but that didn’t count. That was sex, rape, this was love; this was choice.
    I cannot even tell if this is how it happened or whether my dream is some kind of wish fulfillment. It is the same day John Wayne forced me to rape that woman, and afterwards, while the others gather around a fire to roast a goat, Ijeoma takes me to the river. It is dark down here and I can barely make out her face. She makes me sit by the water and she washes my feet and my face, then she strips off and dives into the water. I watch her move through the dark fluid like it is a second skin. My breath catches in my throat, way back, so it is hard to breathe.
    “Come in,” she calls.
    I am scared of the dark water and cannot. I know I will die if I get in, but my fear is so irrational I don’t even speak it. I just shake my head.
    “Coward,” she says, splashing me.
    I laugh and get up. I strip as though I am about to get in the water but I don’t. I sit back down on the dew-damp grass and feel it tickle my skin. This is sensual yet childlike, free and unconcerned. While I don’t feel innocent, and even though I no longer know what that can mean, it seems attainable. Suddenly Ijeoma is standing over me and I look up. In the faint light I see her body—the womanly swell of her hips belying the small buds on her chest. Her skin is wrinkled from the cold water and she is dripping water onto me, each drop falling slowly and with a touch that burns, but I cannot wait for the next drop. She kneels and kisses me. I close my eyes and lose myself in the damp moment. Later, we are dressing and she turns smiling and says: “You should stop fighting now.”
    I don’t know what it means. I want to ask her but I can feel myself waking up.

Listening Is a Hand Cupping
an Ear like a Seashell
    Daylight comes like rust corroding night. It is cool from last night’s rain and I stretch slowly, rested for the first time in months. I roll out from under the truck and walk the perimeter of the old camp, peeing as I go, stopping only to scratch my balls. Returning to the truck I slept under, I fish out a can of beans, bayonet it open, and spoon it cold with the tip of my knife. I have to move on. If the voices I just heard are enemy soldiers, they will soon be here.
    I search through the cabs and backs of the trucks for any kind of bag. It seems like a good idea to pack some food for the road—and maybe some loot that I can trade for favors. There is nothing. I leave the armored vehicles for last, afraid to jump into their dark bellies. I feel like the pygmy on the elephant hunt who has to cut into the beast and push past organs to cut out its heart,