Souvenirs From Moshtarak
In the bathroom
staring hard into the mirror
he ran his hand over the bruises
and scars on his rib cage,
the only hand he has left.
His buddy in the trenches, feet away,
traded both of his legs for his country.
Both wear Purple Hearts
they never asked for.
Grumpy Old Man
for John
You died nine years ago.
Still, I see you in the face
of every old man
worn down by war
and work and
Wasted years.
I didn’t know if the cigarettes killed you
or if it was the nonstop replays
of Vietnam in your mind or maybe
broken lovers from years before.
You would've just shrugged
thrown up your hands and said
"What does it matter anyway?
Life is way too short
to write and think about death
or regrets.”
Memorial
The poetry of men lying in faraway battlefields
will not be read. Not by their sons and daughters,
some that they never got the chance to hold and
kiss and whisper lullabies.
Their words will not be read by lovers, those who
swallowed hard when the phone rang, the ones
who grew anxious at the doorbell, not knowing
if it was him or dreaded news about him.
The lines they wrote, or ones they never got to,
won’t be read. They won’t be recited even in the
quiet moments when the wind stills long enough
to remember life before the draft, before the bombs,
before the towers fell. Before men crossed oceans and,
never meaning to, attached themselves to forever.
Heartfelt