Born in 1967 in California, Brian Turner earned an MFA in poetry at the University of Oregon before enlisting in the army at the age of twenty-nine. During the seven years he spent as a soldier, Turner was deployed to Bosnia and Herzegovina and served as an infantry team leader with the Third Stryker Brigade Combat Team in Iraq in 2003. His work has been published in various journals as well as in Voices in Wartime: The Anthology—published in 2005 in conjunction with the feature-length documentary film of the same name. His first collection of poems, Here, Bullet (2005), was a New York Times Editors’ Choice selection. In 2007, Turner received a National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship in poetry. He currently lives in Fresno, California, where he teaches poetry at Fresno State.

At Lowe’s Home Improvement Center

This poem appeared in Turner’s 2010 collection, Phantom Noise.

Standing in aisle 16, the hammer and anchor aisle,

I bust a 50 pound box of double-headed nails

open by accident, their oily bright shanks

and diamond points like firing pins

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from M-4s and M-16s.

In a steady stream

they pour onto the tile floor, constant as shells

falling south of Baghdad last night, where Bosch

kneeled under the chain guns of helicopters

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stationed above, their tracer-fire a synaptic geometry

of light.

At dawn, when the shelling stops,

hundreds of bandages will not be enough.

Bosch walks down aisle 16 now, in full combat gear,

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improbable, worn out from fatigue, a rifle

slung at his side, his left hand guiding

a ten-year-old boy who sees what war is

and will never clear it from his head.

Here, Bosch says, Take care of him.

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I’m going back in for more.

Sheets of plywood drop with the airy breath

of mortars the moment they crack open

in shrapnel. Mower blades are just mower blades

and the Troy-Bilt Self-Propelled Mower doesn’t resemble

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a Blackhawk or an Apache. In fact, no one seems to notice

the casualty collection center Doc High marks out

in ceiling fans, aisle 15. Wounded Iraqis with IVs

sit propped against boxes as 92 sample Paradiso fans

hover in a slow revolution of blades.

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The forklift driver over-adjusts, swinging the tines

until they slice open gallons and gallons of paint,

Sienna Dust and Lemon Sorbet and Ship’s Harbor Blue

pooling in the aisle where Sgt. Rampley walks through—

carrying someone’s blown-off arm cradled like an infant,

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handing it to me, saying, Hold this, Turner,

we might find who it belongs to.

Cash registers open and slide shut

with a sound of machine guns being charged.

Dead soldiers are laid out at the registers,

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on the black conveyor belts,

and people in line still reach

for their wallets. Should I stand

at the magazine rack, reading

Landscaping with Stone or The Complete

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Home Improvement Repair Book?

What difference does it make if I choose

tumbled travertine tile, Botticino marble,

or Black Absolute granite. Outside,

palm trees line the asphalt boulevards,

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restaurants cool their patrons who will enjoy

fireworks exploding over Bass Lake in July.

Aisle number 7 is a corridor of lights.

Each dead Iraqi walks amazed

by Tiffany posts and Bavarian pole lights.

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Motion-activated incandescents switch on

as they pass by, reverent sentinels of light,

Fleur De Lis and Luminaire Mural Extérieur

welcoming them to Lowe’s Home Improvement Center,

aisle number 7, where I stand in mute shock,

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someone’s arm cradled in my own.

The Iraqi boy beside me

reaches down to slide his fingertip in Retro Colonial Blue,

an interior latex, before writing

T, for Tourniquet, on my forehead.

(2010)