Kiowa shook his head. he fell in love with a classmate, a girl of seventeen, who one day told him that his wrists There was some silence before he said, "Stop were like the wrists of a child, so small and staring." delicate, and who admired his narrow waist and the cowlick that rose up like a bird's tail at The young man's fingernails were clean. the back of his head. She liked his quiet There was a slight tear at the lobe of one ear, a manner; she laughed at his freckles and bony sprinkling of blood on the forearm. He wore a legs. One evening, perhaps, they exchanged gold ring on the third finger of his right hand. gold rings. His chest was sunken and poorly muscled—a scholar, maybe. His life was now a constellation Now one eye was a star. of possibilities. So, yes, maybe a scholar. And for years, despite his family's poverty, the man I "You okay?" Kiowa said. killed would have been determined to continue The body lay almost entirely in shade. There his education in mathematics. The means for were gnats at the mouth, little flecks of pollen this were arranged, perhaps, through the village drifting above the nose. The butterfly was gone. liberation cadres, and in 1964 the young man The bleeding had stopped except for the neck began attending classes at the university in wounds. Saigon, where he avoided politics and paid attention to the problems of calculus. He Kiowa picked up the rubber sandals, devoted himself to his studies. He spent his clapping off the dirt, then bent down to search nights alone, wrote romantic poems in his the body. He found a pouch of rice, a comb, a journal, took pleasure in the grace and beauty fingernail clipper, a few soiled piasters, a of differential equations. The war, he knew, snapshot of a young woman standing in front of would finally take him, but for the time being a parked motorcycle. Kiowa placed these items he would not let himself think about it. He had in his rucksack along with the gray ammunition stopped praying; instead, now, he waited. And belt and rubber sandals. as he waited, in his final year at the university,
Kiowa shook his head. There was some silence before he said, "Stop staring." The young man's fingernails were clean. There was a slight tear at the lobe of one ear, a sprinkling of blood on the forearm. He wore a gold ring on the third finger of his right hand. His chest was sunken and poorly muscled—a scholar, maybe. His life was now a constellation of possibilities. So, yes, maybe a scholar. And for years, despite his family's poverty, the man I killed would have been determined to continue his education in mathematics. The means for this were arranged, perhaps, through the village liberation cadres, and in 1964 the young man began attending classes at the university in Saigon, where he avoided politics and paid attention to the problems of calculus. He devoted himself to his studies. He spent his nights alone, wrote romantic poems in his journal, took pleasure in the grace and beauty of differential equations. The war, he knew, would finally take him, but for the time being he would not let himself think about it. He had stopped praying; instead, now, he waited. And as he waited, in his final year at the university, he fell in love with a classmate, a girl of seventeen, who one day told him that his wrists were like the wrists of a child, so small and delicate, and who admired his narrow waist and the cowlick that rose up like a bird's tail at the back of his head. She liked his quiet manner; she laughed at his freckles and bony legs. One evening, perhaps, they exchanged gold rings. Now one eye was a star. "You okay?" Kiowa said. The body lay almost entirely in shade. There were gnats at the mouth, little flecks of pollen drifting above the nose. The butterfly was gone. The bleeding had stopped except for the neck wounds. Kiowa picked up the rubber sandals, clapping off the dirt, then bent down to search the body. He found a pouch of rice, a comb, a fingernail clipper, a few soiled piasters, a snapshot of a young woman standing in front of a parked motorcycle. Kiowa placed these items in his rucksack along with the gray ammunition belt and rubber sandals.
%20The%20Man%20I%20Killed%20and%20Ambush%20text.docx