Collateral: A Novel

UGLY IN BLACK

As Earth returns to chaos, her women brace to mourn,

excavate their buried faith, tap reservoirs of grace, to mourn.

Soldiers steady M-16s, search stillborn eyes for welcome

or signs of commonality. Ferreting no trace, they mourn.

Few are safe, where passions swell like gangrened limbs

you cannot amputate. Sever one, another takes its place,

and you mourn.

Freefall into martyrdom, a bronze-skinned youth slips into the

crowd, pulls the pin. He and destiny embrace, together mourn.

Grenades are colorblind. A woman falls, spilling ebony hair

beside the blond in camouflage. Death’s doorman gives chase. All

mourn.

Even hell capitulates to sudden downpour. Cloudburst sweeps across

the hardpan, cracks its bloodstained carapace. Hear God mourn.

Up through scattered motes, a daughter reaches for an album. She

climbs into a rocking chair to search for Daddy’s face, and mourn.

Downstairs, a widow splinters on the bed, drops her head into his

silhouette, etched in linen on the pillowcase, to mourn.

Alone, the world is ugly in black. When final night descends

to blanket memory, drops its shroud of tattered lace, who will

mourn?

Present

POETS WRITE ELOQUENTLY

About war, creating vivid images

of severed limbs, crusting body fluids

and restless final sleep, using nothing

more than a few well-crafted words.

Easy enough to jab philosophically

from the comfort of a warm winter

hearth or an air-conditioned summer.

But what can a sequestered writer know

of frontline realities—blistering

marches under relentless sand-choked

skies, where you’d better drink

your weight in water every day or die

from dehydration? Flipside—teeth-

cracking nights, too frigid for action,

bored out of your mind as you try

to stay warm in front of a makeshift fire.

How can any distant observer know

of traversing rock-rutted trails,

hyperaware that your camouflage comes

with a built-in bull’s-eye; or of sleeping

with one ear listening for incoming

peril; or of the way fear clogs your

pores every time you climb inside

a Humvee and head out for a drive?

You can see these things in movies.

But you can’t understand the way

they gnaw your heart and corrode

your mind, unless you’ve been a soldier

outside the wire in a country where

no one native is really your friend,

and anyone might be your enemy.

You don’t know till you’re ducking

bullets. The only person you dare rely

on is the buddy who looks a lot like

you—too young for this, leaking bravado,

and wearing the same uniform.

Even people who love soldiers—

people like me—can only know these

things tangentially, and not so much

because of what our beloveds tell us

as what they’ll never be able to.

OF COURSE, IF YOU ASK

Me about falling in love

with a guy in the military,

I’d tell you to about-face

and double-time toward

a decent, sensible civilian.

Someone with a fat bank

account and solid future,

built on dreams entirely

his own. I’d advise you

to detour widely around

any man who prefers fatigues

to a well-worn pair of jeans;

whose romantic getaways

are defined by three-day

leaves; who, at age twenty-

six has drunk more liquor

than most people manage

in a lifetime. He and his

fellow grunts would claim

it’s just for fun. A way to let

their hair down, if they had

much hair to speak of. But

those they leave behind,

devoted shadows, understand

that each booze-soaked

night is a short-lived

retrieve from uncertain

tomorrows, unspeakable

yesterdays. Service. Sacrifice.

The problem with that being,

everyone attached to those

soldiers must sacrifice, too.

So, as some Afghani warlord

might say, put that in your

pipe and smoke it. Okay, that

was actually my grandpa’s saying.

But it works, and what I mean

is, think long and hard before

offering your heart to someone

who can only accept it part-time.