|
|
|
 |
|
|
| There is no scar at which we can look |
| back and say heroic like a Persian Gulf |
| soldier, Remember the War of 1991? But |
| we remember. We've seen the lesions |
| line up at attention one by one shoulder |
| to shoulder scattered shooting in open |
| field calling out melodious as taps |
| sound off one two sound off three four... |
| We've heard the sound of our scabs |
| dressed in army-issue green as they rip |
| open like a troop of thieves and take |
| away our beautiful skin and spill on us |
| like tear gas their drops of spoiled |
| righteousness...We've lost our sight |
| for the memory of a stock and barrel lay |
| triggers in our mouths bullets in our |
| blood now unable to recognize eyes and |
| smiles seeing instead something shadow |
| shining like medals of honor. All our |
| lovers have gone AWOL the poet writes. |
| All our lives discharged...This is our war. |
| Void of yellow ribbons and dollar-a-month |
| veterans' life insurance policies. Old Glory |
| now a term we use for life before the war |
| back when we were brave and bronzed when |
| the 1/4-inch cut of our hair told us we'd live |
| to serve our country not matter what |
|
