Young, with lead capped molars,
his curling fro
is close cropped,
kept close,
like many a revolutionary
called up
back then
for exigent circumstances:
to rumble
in a jungle
so far
from his lover.
I imagine
the shouldery bulk
of his 21-year-old body,
lifting Kool
to lips,
reminded of the taste
of peppermint candy,
reminded of home
in all that
muck and sweat,
all that green,
pressing
down,
like the threat of
night
here.
We grew close here,
my father says
of the Black grunts
and the white grunts,
No color on the battlefield.
And after?
I ask.
I’ll tell you everything.
We’re
maimed,
he says,
and there are no
purple hearts
for the after:
it was not a decent time,
he says.
I believe him.
I want to believe in war—
in all the dirt and sand
caked beneath the humvees,
and the droning of tanks and the loading of M-16s
and the slapping of backs and loading of packs,
the mix of iron and oil in the air,
the ping of spent shells, trickling onto pavement,
the sticky sweet smell of chew,
the steel plates in the mess hall
and so far, far away, the politicians.
I want to believe,
from behind my school desk,
that the war is far away,
that the war is over
for my Father.
Will “The Poet” Langford is an artist and educator from Detroit, Michigan. He is a member of the Riverwise Editorial team and a frequent contributor. For more, visit www.WillThePoet.com
