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?
Copyright © Robert Sturgill | Year Posted 2015
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