by Jaye Shore Freyer
Adults spoke an audible braille
I could mimic but just half comprehend ~
must have been that my mind was as green
as the fields of those afternoons ~
as untethered and untamed as a wren
Take Casualty Calls ~ a term
common as weeds in my seventh year;
the soft southern arc in my inner ear
knew call, that lazily stretched
its neighborly vowel,
making a visit genteel;
and casual's sensual sound
rubbed its back like a cat
slipping along the back of my throat,
carefully side-stepping my tongue.
Did I ask? If I did,
it was probably defined
as 'work to be done'.
Da Nang, Kwang Tri, Dong Ha
the same ~ can still feel how they felt ~
rolling around in my mouth ~
colored balloons of sound
held by the slender twine of a pause ~
over and over again - hop scotch
jumping rope with friends,
pumping the swing
till it tugged at it's reins
And then, what ended on the airport tarmac
was a beginning of a long silence,
not just for me but all of us.
When I think about our current wars I think about my own family - the years when I was young and having a father see action seemed fun, exotic, important ~ a grade school child's view of the world. It all changed when my father came back from Viet Nam and the fun fell out of it. I realized how badly I'd bungled understanding what was going on. In the days before Google children were left to figure what grown-ups were talking about and my parents seemed to make a conscious effort to leave us to our childhood as much as they could.
The events this week, with the capture/killing of Osama bin Ladin, triggered a recurring thought that my son and his friends were the age I was here when the towers went down, and I have wondered what they make of what they have (haven't ) understood about the events that course through their lives. They seem so much savvier than I ever was but I'm curious to see how they capture their point of view for us ~ I'm looking forward to hearing their voices ~ and know it may take years for this to happen as it has here for me.
Adults spoke an audible braille
I could mimic but just half comprehend ~
must have been that my mind was as green
as the fields of those afternoons ~
as untethered and untamed as a wren
Take Casualty Calls ~ a term
common as weeds in my seventh year;
the soft southern arc in my inner ear
knew call, that lazily stretched
its neighborly vowel,
making a visit genteel;
and casual's sensual sound
rubbed its back like a cat
slipping along the back of my throat,
carefully side-stepping my tongue.
Did I ask? If I did,
it was probably defined
as 'work to be done'.
Da Nang, Kwang Tri, Dong Ha
the same ~ can still feel how they felt ~
rolling around in my mouth ~
colored balloons of sound
held by the slender twine of a pause ~
over and over again - hop scotch
jumping rope with friends,
pumping the swing
till it tugged at it's reins
And then, what ended on the airport tarmac
was a beginning of a long silence,
not just for me but all of us.
 |
| Collage of my Dad, 1967 |
The events this week, with the capture/killing of Osama bin Ladin, triggered a recurring thought that my son and his friends were the age I was here when the towers went down, and I have wondered what they make of what they have (haven't ) understood about the events that course through their lives. They seem so much savvier than I ever was but I'm curious to see how they capture their point of view for us ~ I'm looking forward to hearing their voices ~ and know it may take years for this to happen as it has here for me.