Going to Chechnya

We’re crossing the cattle guards into Chechnya
Where the Russians and the rebels both cut
off heads and hands.
Where, I have read, the people
are so polite to guests, they apologize for only just surviving,
For how little they have kept.
Where they can’t hear the heavy artillery two blocks down anymore,
where the war is simply years and years.

We are much too old to pretend such terrible places,
But our bloody-curiosity makes us ache
to know. So slowly we build into the game, walking upstream
Up the rocks, the waterfalls, the fighting cold of Harley Creek
I suspect Montana looks nothing like Chechnya.

You and I should know better than to play at horrors
But I’m the daring, beautiful war reporter
You’re my drunk Russian guide
My name is Charlotte Jones, for some reason
You are just Leo, friendly, half-mad,
Porcupine about your true self.

We’re not sure where we’re going, what Rebel
Leader we’re seeking in what mountain cave,
Only that our imaginary cigarettes must stay unlit
For fear of discovery, so we duck and crawl up the creek,
Talking about other wars, about New Years Eve
in Sniper’s Ally. Sarajevo was our big one,
Because we know a little more about it
Than Chechnya, anyway.