A poem not imagined but alive with truth and remembered feelings that lean with an affection for story while highlighting the consequences of the Viet Nam War.
for Douglas Mason 1945-2010
I press an ear against purple,
hear the way he used to call out
those US Marine Corps songs,
get the feet marching to glory.
On the down-stomp of south
paw foot he barked left—
left/right/left.
I marched with toenails painted
red. Our feet made one sound
peeling the top layer of kitchen linoleum,
until the black backing was a sticky
crumble and the floor shook its own
resin-rattle-call to duty.
I laughed all over the rank and file.
He ordered, Wipe that silly grin
off your face, Private and I did.
He never let on that this was play—
kept me stomping left/ /left
left/right/left long after my knees
were weak and his were high up
in his throat, wrapped around
his Adam’s apple, pushed into
my vocal cords until I choked on
the thought that he could be peeking
through jungle weeds, eyes watching
for the enemy—over there.
Kill the children and burn the village
was cause for blisters on my bare feet.
No room to hide under the table with
seven straight back chairs squeezed
shoulder to shoulder. Their packed
tight attention and steel-toe legs
unbending to the left/ /left
left/right/left.
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Sheila Carter-Jones is the author of the books Three Birds Deep and Every Hard Sweetness and the chapbooks Blackberry Cobbler Song, Crooked Star Dream Book, and Elegy-ish. She is a fellow of Cave Canem, Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop, and a Walter Dakin Fellow of the Sewanee Writer’s Conference. Carter-Jones writes to mine and engage the mundane human experience for its potential value to shape a more creative life. She is published in various journals, anthologies, and reviews. She holds an MFA from Carlow University where she facilitates a writing workshop in their Madwomen in the Attic Program.
This is an incredible and chilling poem. I will continue to think about this piece.