Frisking Two Men in Sadiyah
Frisking Two Men in Sadiyah
By Hugh Martin
Kenson says to search them
since they’ve watched us all day
from a doorway. I go down
to the dirt on one knee, begin
where the thin beige dishdasha
grazes the ankle. My palms
then fingers climb as if the leg’s
a rope. Kenson points his rifle;
mine’s slung across his back.
This man, maybe sixty,
doesn’t take his hazel eyes
off my face & as I reach where
my right knuckles brush
the scrotum’s loose weight, he doesn’t
blink. I frisk the other leg, stand—
forehead level with his gray stubble chin,
his smoky breath. I pat the torso,
pat the outstretched armpits, pat
the breast-pocket’s cigarette pack,
then lean into what looks like a hug,
slide hands down his back,
my vest’s six magazines press
his stomach. He sees through
the black ballistic glasses I wear—
all of us wear—for explosions,
for sunlight, & as I squeeze
both arms through his sleeves,
I think he’ll be the one,
after hundreds, to spit gently
on my cheek. I tilt my head.
A few feet behind: Kenson—
just to see he’s there. When I step away,
the man studies my face as if
to put it all to memory. All
I want: to grab my rifle from Kenson,
but the other man steps forward,
lifts his arms, & waits for my hands to begin.
Hugh Martin is a veteran of the Iraq War and the author of In Country (BOA Editions, 2018) and The Stick Soldiers (BOA Editions, 2013). He is the recipient of an NEA Fellowship, a Pushcart Prize, a Yaddo Fellowship, and a Wallace Stegner Fellowship. He was the 2014-15 Emerging Writer Lecturer at Gettysburg College and he’s currently completing a Ph.D. at Ohio University.