A Poem for a Monday

I've never taken too well to authority. I'm not the patriotic type that waves a flag. You won't hear me saying God bless the USA. It's not that I don't respect this country or the people that do flaunt their patriotism, it's just not my way. I could never join the military and never understood why someone would want to (I knew of very few people who did). But now I understand. When I taught at a community college in Eastern Iowa my classes were so diverse in age and background--students ranged from 18 to 50 years of age. It made for such a rich and textured environment as the discussions and opinions shared were never homogeneous. And my favorite students were those who were in the military. In my experience, every one of them brought with them a certain confidence. They were respectful of everyone in the class whether or not they shared the same opinions, they were comfortable in their skin--always involved in the class and engaged, they brought a certain wisdom having seen and experienced things no one else could have imagined, and they were dedicated to their studies. So even if that life choice is not for me, now I see the benefit for those who choose it and I'm truly thankful that they do. On this Memorial Day, I say thank you to all the fine men and women who have or currently serve.

And in honor of those who have made the sacrifice for our country, here's a poem I wrote some years ago while in grad school. I had a crappy part time job at a furniture store while I was in school and I'll never forget the day a man came in looking for a new bed. He sat down on one and said "the ground in Vietnam was softer than this." Those words shot to my gut and I knew I had to write about it, so here it is:

What He Meant When He Said Ground

He entered the room like he

had forgotten himself years

ago, turned his back, that map

of distance. Sitting in a folding

chair, he said the ground in

Vietnam was softer, more

giving than where he sat now,

as if he had waited years to use

that line. And it was like

this each day in his life, spitting

images of a time his body is

bound to forever now. No one

understood the connection

between the chair and war,

fragments of all they’d seen

suspended above their heads,

the bodies, the vegetation, the

sound of expelled ammo set

to music, their memory in

a television. But when he said

ground, he meant ground, the

wet of it under his bones,

the metal smell of blood blended

with mud, the sound of silence

after spent rounds. He meant

the way the ground stuck to his

back long after he lay down in it.