A poem in the spirit of Memorial Day
During the War
When my brother came home from war
—Philip Levine (2007)
When my brother came home from war
he carried his
left arm in a black sling
but assured us
most of it was still there.
Spring was late,
the trees forgot to leaf out.
I stood in a long
line waiting for bread.
The woman behind
me said it was shameless,
someone as strong
as I still home, still intact
while her Michael
was burning to death.
Yes, she could
feel the fire, could smell
his pain all the
way from Tarawa–
or was it
Midway?–and he so young,
younger than I,
who was only fourteen,
taller, more
handsome in his white uniform
turning slowly
gray the way unprimed wood
grays slowly in
the grate when the flames
sputter and die.
“I think I’m going mad,”
she said when I
turned to face her. She placed
both hands on my
shoulders, kissed each eyelid,
hugged me to her
breasts and whispered wetly
in my bad ear
words I’d never heard before.
When I got home
my brother ate the bread
carefully one
slice at a time until
nothing was left
but a blank plate. “Did you see her,”
he asked, “the
woman in hell, Michael’s wife?”
That afternoon I
walked the crowded streets
looking for
something I couldn’t name,
something
familiar, a face or a voice or less,
but not these
shards of ash that fell from heaven.
—Philip Levine (2007)
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