December, 2009 for RJ

Early morning, I gather soft murmurs on the hotel shuttle:

The first surgery nicked his colon, ten more after that
His dad left on Saturday
Mom leaves on Sunday
A sister leaves Wednesday
An aunt arrives on Thursday
_

Inside every heart, there’s a painting, one of oil never drying.
Inside these walls are portraits of life impossible to render.
_

One canvas offers:
an Army Champlain around a make-shift altar in the jungle;
one chopper hovers overhead.
The soldiers’ hands are folded, heads bowed.
If there is a silence beyond silence, here it is.
_

As though on skateboards,
legless boys cruise the grounds on electronic devices.
Sisters and mothers chase them.
Someone tries to tell me the left leg is target,
key seat in the hummer, but I see the right gone too.
I see the middle of nowhere.
I see the nothingness.
I digest the cost for freedom.
_

These days the wound is left open until signs of infection are gone.
I wish you could cut the heart open, mend it
then let it drain and dry for days in the sun.
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Second canvas provides: a priest washing a soldier’s feet.
Some days, I think there is nothing holy left.
But if there is a holy beyond holy, I’ll take it in.
_

We lie on soft mats with soldiers in meditation.
She tells us to forget about ourselves,
introduces us to each part of our being.
I whispered to myself no more war poems. I told myself that.

ANN IVERSON