|
|
 |
Contests : War Poetry Contest : Past Winners : 2004 : S. Brady Tucker
WHIRLIGIG
The Dead:
When he is alone, in an
easy chair, say, or in the dark,
under a raspberry jam night sky, sitting
on his oak deck, he hears them:
he hears Sammy and Doug and Erik whisper
their jealousy—they whisper their hatred for
his life and the world simmers with a
terrible heat, and he is not
alone for a moment, but awfully
surrounded by them again, and he
knows what they mean when they
speak to him, and his blood red and blue
from heart to arteries to veins
beats like syrup and he is in the desert
again, his knee in the sand, his tan
desert combat boots dug in as if
rooted there, and he hears again the
sound of them whispering with the voices
of bullets popping and whirring and
thumping flesh, and he hears them
roar their fear so loud and awful
and terrible that his weapon falls to his
feet and his gloved hands hold bloody
chunks of sand against his ears
to drown out the sound of it all. When
it is over, he shakes the sand out of
his baby fine hair, and he picks up his
discarded weapon in shame. To the east, bombs
and bullets still purr as a war rends everything
he knows and everything he ever will know.
When he is alone, they remind him:
"You will never be alone. Never."
The Alive:
When there are other people around,
he knows that some of it isn't
real—like how the feel of Erik's
blood sticking to the black metal
of his weapon was real, or how the
oily smoke of Erik's blood burned his
nostrils when his weapon overheated was real.
Real real. And he knows this is wrong and untrue
and he is as afraid of getting help
as he was in that desert when everything
went wrong in the world. So he pretends
that they are not a fiction, that they exist,
like Erik's severed foot existed still tied
into its boot—how it felt to pick up that
foot and place it in a pile of other things that
were Erik's, and sometimes it even works for him.
Do you see why he thinks of the world like
proverbs in fortune cookies? "Burning flesh is
the smell of success!" or, "You are alive for some
obscure reason." He smiles sometimes when
he thinks like this, but he knows it isn't funny.
He knows that they will continue to whisper to
him for the rest of his life, and that he is doomed
and lost and cursed. No one will ever laugh with him
and no one will ever know the cowardice he is capable
of, and how Erik would be alive if it weren't for him.
But know this: somehow, one night, he will know five minutes
of peace—just five minutes of life, as it should have been.
This poem won an Honorable Mention in the 2004 War Poetry Contest sponsored by Winning Writers. Author S. Brady Tucker received a $50 award. Copyright is reserved to the author.
About S. Brady Tucker
S. Brady Tucker received his MA in Creative Writing from Northern Arizona University in 1998,
where he worked as Poetry Editor for Thin Air magazine. Currently, he is writing a novel,
finishing a poetry collection, and pursuing a doctoral degree in Literature at Florida State University.
He is originally from Wyoming, and served as an Army 82nd Airborne paratrooper in the Persian Gulf War.
His poetry and fiction is forthcoming or has recently appeared in the North American Review, Poetry Motel,
Art Times, C/Oasis, Main Street Rag, Hurricane Review, Lullwater Review, Mississippi Review, Rhino,
Southern Poetry Review, Crab Orchard Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.
He also has material appearing in the following anthologies: American Diaspora (University of Iowa Press),
Like
Thunder (University of Iowa Press), and Clockpunchers (Mammoth Books).
"Salute your soldiers with your own actions, not with empty promises and words."
|
|