I visited her cottage each month, never
staying the night

through her window by the oak table
we watched the surf

on days when the sea was angry, we could hear
the waves crack against earth's spare spine

those times I liked, for she would hold my hand,
tightly, like I was her tether to the wide world

I would leave as the sun set, the moment a million
gold sparkles vanished from the waters

when I found her, I pretended she was asleep
but her eyes were open and still

staring it seemed through the same window
I sat with her and rubbed her cold hand

I stayed until the sun sank into the same salty sea
wondering if the old tales were true...

if a billion tears had flowed into the blue depths
making a soulful brine

I know mine fell on the soggy sand, disappearing
in the dusk that swallowed my tracks

the ville was just women,
old men, young children--mostly gaunt ghosts
before my platoon arrived with our own dead
men walking

I gave the order to burn the village,
rout its dazed denizens and grease any
who offered resistance

only one woman did, clawing
at my boys like a crazed cat, going after Freddie
from Fresno with a bamboo stalk

I don't know who shot her
but I remember standing over her
with Freddie and Mickey from Milwaukee
who stepped on a mine within the hour

Freddie bought it too, but not until
that night, when small arms fire from the jungle
woke us from our dread dreams

the apparitions that haunted our heads
whenever we spilled the blood of innocents
or even the red devils' kin--perhaps
an equivalent sin

the next day we ****** back
to base camp, a twelve click hike;
as hours passed, and the earth dried,
our shadows became sharper, darkening
reminders we could run
but never hide

I was chicken
dropped only a half tab--a quarter before midnight  
and hurried back to my apartment
before the day changed    

from a Monday
to a ruby Tuesday  
where my walls melted
and music smelled like sassafras;
the flickering flares of light from two fat candles  
tasted like toasted almonds    

every eternal hour, or minute,
or so, I would try to tiptoe down the hall  
past the sleeping neighbors who were all dreaming
of me, skulking past their locked doors

but I never made it to the street
a feat that would have demanded
I stop giggling, and my heart stop thumping
for any pig or narc could have seen
my crimson machine pumping
ready to fly from my chest    

dawn did finally come--I was
coming down, down from the floor
on which I had lain from the minute
a ferocious fly dive bombed me
somewhere around three  

I walked to the corner grocery store
where I bought pan dulce, and was glad the clerk
spoke no English, for surely she would have asked me
to tell her how I survived such an aerial assault  
in peacetime

Etched in my memory is a chair in the Rexall Drug, Easter eve--me sitting on the edge of it, waiting

And the despairing look on my father's face while he too waited,  for some pill or potion to heal my big brother

Sitting across from me, asleep, was a woman--I believe the oldest person in the world

Together we were half this lonely planet, my father and the apothecary the rest of its survivors

Every other soul was gone, perhaps snatched early, by some unexpected rapture

Resurrection was nigh, but I was expecting only an egg hunt, and perchance a chocolate bunny


Across the street, a church sat in silence, its steeple cross barely visible through the Rexall's glass door

Thunder echoed through the night, and for a flickering moment, it was daylight outside


The druggist handed my father a small white paper bag, for which he gave thanks

He said, "Let's go, David." Not "Bud" or "Podner," and he didn't wait for me to get up

Even though it had begun to rain, he moved slowly through the lot to our parked car


Every time I think of that night, I wonder who was born the next day, to take my brother's place

Death I discovered, is not on a schedule--the doctors said he had a year, maybe more

Gods don't explain themselves to men or monkeys, at least not to the mortals I know

Easter was a good day to die I guess, but if my brother thought so, he didn't say

he dragged his feet
her veil scared him
she was not smiling

she bent over
the ******* box
he could not see
what was inside

her lips moved
but he did not hear her
he heard the big people whispering,
talking softly

like they usually did
when they were not singing
in this place, this room
with high ceilings, colored windows
and benches he thought
they called pews

he couldn't see him,
his daddy, though many
said he was there

he wondered what
was in the black box
and when his mother began
to walk away, he saw her hand print
on the surface, but no thumb

he dragged his feet again
she pulled his hand harder
he wiggled free and went back
to the box

Uncle Roy picked him up
to carry him down the aisle; when he did
he thought he saw his daddy asleep
in the box

and his mother's hand print
was still there, but now missing
*******

he knew that number
two--he looked back a final time
and saw other big people at the box,
walking, looking, perhaps being quiet
to not wake Daddy

white tulips
in moonlight, though silver
this night

they are near,
near, yet I cannot
touch them

nor catch their coy scent
but I smell nothing, hear
nothing

and, and this vision
of a forgiving bulb,
is fading

behind it,
in its shivering shadow
I see him

what is left of his face
what grace there must be
in this place

where the man I killed
the moment he killed me
and I, are now together

separated only by
silent soil, and a merciful
white blossom

dirt clods, actually
there were few stones
in the creek that separated
their apartments from ours

a creek, and income gap even we,
barely double digits old, could see
as clearly as the stream
between our worlds

in our battles, I missed
on purpose, as did most
of the Manor marines--never
did a clod hit me

our general, Rex, connected often
inviting obscenities from our opponents
but never did they cross the creek

if they had, it would have been
for naught, for we had won the war
before the skirmishes began

our pool, tennis courts, and club
were the arsenals that gave us the edge
and the Stuart Manor soldiers knew this
but chunked the dirt valiantly
all the same