Poem about a soldier missing his girl and coming to terms with what he's become. |
MY DEAREST The kerosene lamp is the only light I have to write under, my dearest one. The moon lies hidden behind thickening clouds, Along with the stars, the planets, the galaxies. I lean my cold back against this ancient pine And its scent reminds me of Christmas past When we gathered together before the hearth Feeling the heat of the flickering flames . Do you remember me, my dearest? A sharp wind blows and my threadbare jacket Lets in the cold air as though it were a sieve. My muscles twitch and I momentarily shiver The gust passes, I return to the letter. We met in the church one frozen Sunday When the river ran beneath jagged sheets of ice Your face slightly pink, the white ribbon in your hair Pressed down by the green hat knitted By your grandmother as she rocked in the rocking chair Saturday afternoons in the parlor as you played piano. Do you recall, my dearest? Snow falls as I write these words on this paper Snow flakes melt as they strike the lamp My exposed fingers yearn for the gloves lost Yesterday in battle with other men No different than me, aside from uniforms, Geography, political inclinations. I killed a man yesterday with my bayonet Before he could reload his musket A scream did not issue forth from his lungs No, just a sudden inhalation of air A stagger on his feet, his fingers clutching The end of my musket as if a rope To save him from the claws of death Upon his last breath he laughed And diminished into a corpse in the snow. Can you forgive me, my dearest? This war continues in earnest much like an illness Infecting all participants with justifiable homicide Lines on a map drawn, erased, redrawn, Plans for incursions, acts of diversion, A deadly game played by those of rank, Immune to moral implications. I do admire them, those chests adorned with medals, Those faces fixed in stone. Do you have any idea, my dearest? It is my connection to you that buoys me Above the filth around here, the corpses, The corporals, the sergeants, the generals, The latrines, the stale loaves of bread. Fourteen days have passed since last Touching this quill, and I must tell you To release yourself from me For I am not the man you knew before. I enjoy the killing now, I relish the blood, I inhale deeply the smell of death as if roses Spread across the fields I walk. Into darkness my feet have led me, In league with Mephistopheles am I. My greatest fear is that this blessed war will end, Leaving me with loaded musket only What utterly lonely days will those be. Bury me now, dearest one. I am dead and there will be no resurrection. Jesus cannot, and will not save me From the beast I have become. Just this morning I slashed the throat Of an enemy soldier dying in the bush Because his screams of agony Had given me a headache. Yes, for a simple headache I killed a man. Oh, do forget me, my dearest. |