At the Wall

1 A Vietnam veteran and a mother Stand shoulder to shoulder Before it's patriotic domain, Amazed at the hard stone's ability To accept the lost with such soft hands. Their faces, caught in the black granite, Merge into one. With a secret map Etched into the tips of their fingers, They grope the wall As if given a short reprieve From the distance of the dead, Running their fingers over the names - Speaking an ancient language Whose letters sink Back into the earth. I eavesdrop only in the reflection, Because their emotion is awkward, Like the first time your father cried. 2 She stands vulnerable under an indifferent sky The color of cold ashes. Taloned memories swoop in Like birds of prey, Bleeding the air with an archaic wound, Ripping the scabs From the emptiness of her womb. Each visit is the first - As if Mary Magdalene had rolled Back the massive boulder to find Jesus' body - the resurrection an elaborate hoax. She instinctively reaches for his name, And like a nervous, young mother, Wipes a tear from his moist eye. 3 The black pool shimmers in his dark eyes. He rides a wave of time, Each ebb and flow a cruel cycle, Living with what is brought ashore, Coping with that Which is taken back. A crash from above Evicts him from the root of his foundation. A flash! And he is caught inside again, Offering his arm for its construction. Barely audible, He utters a single protest and reaches For the man in front of him. Is he once again attempting To stop the bleeding Or desperately trying To add his own name to the list?