war – orphan poems

115. blindfolds

a man believes a ground war outdated,

settling my senses into the melancholy

of unnecessary and inevitable scars,

knowing nothing ends in the air

because we are of earth.

this morning my boots plowed

one path

through blizzard’s detritus,

streets abandoned, wind alone.

a raven shouted into the silence,

its word echoing between buildings.

this is how it was, I thought.

and this is how it is or will be because

only the faces change.

every day we blindfold ourselves,

spin around in the dark

and claim then to know where we are.

perhaps we do.

we stand where we have always stood,

in ourselves and little wiser.

99. he died

saturday stretched across decades, snapping in

around memories better left dormant,

one hour as long as the drawn gun lifting

to point, the sigh and quickly

missed lunge.

some thoughts own every space left

between seconds, claiming a self

well lost, inviting

redemptive desire –

that impossible movement

of forgiveness, yet

never granting that which be so

desperately

needed.

what a day –

drinking tea at the

table, windblown snow rising

outside the glass.

84. land

my beloved land,

grass thick as beaver

pelt, light rolling across it,

licking the sky …

yes, clouds the very

breath of space and earth

muttering east, rubbing against blue

so blue my bones ache …

my beloved land.

bury my now terrified

heart. when this war is gone

drink down this blood.

how will we each live with each

other then,

ashamed?

83. asphalt

asphalt underlies so many

memorable longings and

questionable lovers: basra,

madrid, montalban;

empty highway ninety-five

soaked in restless

sunlight and angry

ranchers’ dissatisfaction.

my roads, lift upon

lift, shift against a

subbase poorly laid.

asphalts stretch, alligator

thin skins a clever tease… my

roads do not run on and on.

my roads do not

wear out because they explode.

basrah loops as a flash

bright as cordite,

one fox running all out, one

tree out there waiting.

asphalt just lifts.

my road fountains and settles

back whole just in time to lift again,

disintegrating and settling, silently

and again, loops of exploding

asphalt.

how I

at times do long for

the men known, dead now or those

not quite dead, still here.

22. the attention of soldiers

maybe it was not the jacketed metal

that killed soldiers, not the compressed air

in a vacant pocket of explosion.

maybe those projectiles only

spring through the gauntlet of wandering attention–

the blistered foot, the scratched raw palm chafing

on the salty stock of a worn rifle.

maybe in the window of rainwater

fresh on green-drunk jungle, in the heart-stopping

din orchestra of birdsong falling

on morning’s delicate daylight, swinging

grass flowing like wind-water

gold as a lit evening in illinois . . .

perhaps it is not precisely the trigger pulled that kills

but the moment between, that of an eyelid flickering,

side trip to a stop frame of living

that takes each soldier’s life,

stolen with calcified indifference

from that blade width of inattention

between the effort of vigilance

and the infinite sensation

of a hunger for beauty.

14. things i miss – 2

out back by the runway

fence, dirty air settling now

cool movement just brushing the

backs of our hands before

the rounds pop, so far away

we’re not sure … is it?

is it?

then your palm on the back

of my collar, one lift and hard

shove down the narrow

lane between sandbags and

we’re full out, laughing and

fucking well near panic

to be fair, still, I fall

headlong and laughing hard

onto my trailer floor, panting.

13. things i miss – 1

i miss the weight

of body armor defining

the edge of ribs

curve of resting

spine after a long day

outside the wire.

I still miss the smell

of jet fuel funking up

morning air, sun

a flat orange disc

strolling up over the dirt

lot where tanks park.

I still miss the clack

of long guns rearranged

and the snick-clack of

handguns armed at the gate,

a thump of artillery out at

the airfield as we watch

from the highway, out

the main gate, just

in time to avoid

lockdown.