Thursday, March 20, 2014

Written during a point in my life where I was struggling with the concept of war, yet dating a soldier.

1969

Time played slow
like the end of a roll of black and white film.
The crowd moved and jostled in lethargic waves,
fists beat the sluggish air--  
the flower people now threw stones.
My people.
Angry voices filled the air with distance echos;
hate and spittle fell with ruthless slowness
on the soldiers, the baby-killers,
Nay,
the children, with blank faces.
Hate.
I rolled the word in my mouth,
disliking the taste:
hate left no room for the love.
Dust billowed from marching feet
A figure stepped out--
grim--
keeping slow tempo with the rest.
Left... ...right... ...left... ...right.
Words flashed in my mind, like dreams:
the tear-stained paper promises.
His face: hard lines chiseled by the hands of war;
but still the face I kissed goodbye.
He moved listlessly, though his step was in-time;
even his uniform looked tired.
We both fought a war--
same goal but different sides.
My ambiance drew him;
he turned.
Eyes locked.
My long hair and skirt swirled;
from the wind or the force of my comrades hate--
I couldn't tell.
The strength of his gaze pulled me;
I took a step into the street.
And time sped up.
Noise and sensation crested powerfully:
I staggered with the weight.
Hate assaulted my ears,
dust stung my eyes and nose;
I caught a faint whiff of smoke.
Elbows bit my side,
fingers tried to yank me back.
I ran to him;
my people screamed in anger.
Two hands cradled him so softly,
wanting to erase cruelty, pain.
Why were we fighting against the ones
whose cause we were fighting for?

No comments:

Post a Comment