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#sameasiteverwasonereckons
She slumped by the archway of the Chapel, Forlorn, beaten in fact; She had come to these grounds from Plattsburgh, (Cold, martial little city home to General Wood’s summer flings) To lay a wreath she’d bought near the train station at Bayeux Purchased from a women at a small shop table, Who’d had the grace not to haggle over-much, Knowing full well why someone would make such a purchase. She’d hoped to lay it at her brother’s marker; He’d been lost at Omaha, likely before he’d set foot on the sand (She’d no ideas of such things at the time, Death being a thing that happened to rabbits Their old shepherd chased down in the back yard, Or dolls beheaded courtesy of her younger brother) But the plot number given to her with such confidence By the young adjutant from the War Department Had a name wholly unknown to her (Where the information was bollixed she had no way of knowing, Not that officialdom would be any more help to her, With so many sons in Scranton, So many husbands in Hamtramck, So many fathers and brothers in the same boat) And so she sat, overwhelmed with the distance she’d come, The magnitude of her failure and its implications, And the whole **** burden of simple humanity When she was approached by an older man, Who clearly resided nearby (Why he was here less evident—the hush of the venue, perhaps, Possibly some corporal he was indebted to). He’d understood her predicament in an instant, No doubt a scene he’d witnessed scores of times before, Laissez-le sur un monument funéraire, He crooned, patting her forearm Ce n’est pas important, and he sauntered away. She’d considered heeding his advice, But she remained hostage To some vestige of latter-day Babbitesque can-do, And so she soldiered back toward the endless rows of marble, Stretching out in endless parallel lines As in some middle-school perspective perspective drawing Without borders, without end.
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Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
wk-kortas
A Young Woman At Colleville-Sur-Mer, C. 1956
She slumped by the archway of the Chapel, Forlorn, beaten in fact; She had come to these grounds from Plattsburgh, (Cold, martial little city home to General Wood’s summer flings) To lay a wreath she’d bought near the train station at Bayeux Purchased from a women at a small shop table, Who’d had the grace not to haggle over-much, Knowing full well why someone would make such a purchase. She’d hoped to lay it at her brother’s marker; He’d been lost at Omaha, likely before he’d set foot on the sand (She’d no ideas of such things at the time, Death being a thing that happened to rabbits Their old shepherd chased down in the back yard, Or dolls beheaded courtesy of her younger brother) But the plot number given to her with such confidence By the young adjutant from the War Department Had a name wholly unknown to her (Where the information was bollixed she had no way of knowing, Not that officialdom would be any more help to her, With so many sons in Scranton, So many husbands in Hamtramck, So many fathers and brothers in the same boat) And so she sat, overwhelmed with the distance she’d come, The magnitude of her failure and its implications, And the whole **** burden of simple humanity When she was approached by an older man, Who clearly resided nearby (Why he was here less evident—the hush of the venue, perhaps, Possibly some corporal he was indebted to). He’d understood her predicament in an instant, No doubt a scene he’d witnessed scores of times before, Laissez-le sur un monument funéraire, He crooned, patting her forearm Ce n’est pas important, and he sauntered away. She’d considered heeding his advice, But she remained hostage To some vestige of latter-day Babbitesque can-do, And so she soldiered back toward the endless rows of marble, Stretching out in endless parallel lines As in some middle-school perspective perspective drawing Without borders, without end.
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