|
Bio
Poetry
Essays
Books
Reviews
Contact
|
NO MIDDLE NAME
His last name was stitched onto his jungle fatigues,
followed by his first initial,
about one inch above the left side shirt pocket,
as though he were a little boy who might wander off
and become lost.
There were popping sounds in the distance
as one might expect to hear at a theatre production
about gangsters.
The clouds that day were a fine art in their whiteness,
and from time to time they would change shape and position.
And then there were voices,
again as though coming from off-stage, and laughter
as one hears after the telling of a joke;
they were coming towards us.
I wiped some grime off this soldier’s cheek
with the back of my hand and swept his hair off his forehead
with my fingers.
He was so beautiful.
That’s when I cursed out loud.
And then heard someone say, “Over there,
it came from over there.”
|