What we owe the future
is not a new start, for we can only begin
with what has happened. We owe the future
the past, the long knowledge
that is the potency of time to come.
That makes of a man’s grave a rich furrow.
When will the surface still?
When will the fire die,
When will we scrape the wound clean,
When will things be the same again?
The last one is done for you. Ask
the mothers and fathers, ask
the widows, sit
on the chintz sofa, touch
the son under glass, see
the faded picture look
back from years,
See it written, not large,
but small over and over and over,
One Size Fits All.
When we complete
a dark circle, kill
to stop the killing
(assume we succeed),
those who wave giddy
little plastic flags of
will be those who
to come home to.
written in 2001, days after 9/11, and not edited since.
In a stadium on the flight path to the airport
planes descending during the game
my home town high school championship game
turning down for final approach
their engines running up slightly
watching every single one until they headed away
it was 2004.
Wish I had found this project, blog, journal, or whatever you want to call it by Amalie Flynn a year ago so that I could have read the posts “in real time.” Flynn is a military spouse and also has a poetry blog called Wife and War.