DEAR SIMON
Simon, you’re a survivor,
lived through the bombardment,
outlasted the conscription
& you speak for us
but not for us, silver tongued,
eyes hidden behind ballistic shields.
I’ve warned you, if I catch you
in a lie… maybe on patrol, in a courtyard
after we’ve dug up their cache.
It’s been nearly six years, I’m sure you’re
at home on your couch, boys looking up,
listening, war stories, yours and mine
remember the time – we ducked
and ran –weapons company would
or did the Fedayeen get to you,
did you pass with the Carabinerie
that October day?
And so you know I have boys now,
too young for war-stories, and I
recreate you in my dreams, watch you stride away.
SNAPPING IN
Every day I patrol,
I patrol the streets of NYC,
I stop and listen, take in my surroundings,
I scan the rooftops for snipers,
I clear staircases expecting an ambush at the top
I size every one up, devising the ways that I can beat them.
The feeling of the M-16 is still in my hands
the muscle memory records it shape and feel
the smell, the length, to this day
my body yearns to snap in
to place the rifle into my shoulder, breathe
close my eyes, wait for the natural pause, slowly
squeeze the trigger on the blurry target
one round center mass.
Every day I patrol.
every day I snap in.
every day I refight battles.
every day I refight my war.
WALKING IN THE PARK
The patrol dismounted, a
real walk in the park, down
the road, pass the wire before we
depart, the kids playing, and
the young men too, this game "barefoot
soccer" as we look for the two,
the two of you.
In here you must be,
In little pieces maybe, for where else
Where else
could your bodies be?
