Dear Pen Pal
In a moment of pique, I near spoke too much,
Then silence took over—I erased it as such.
Polite words rewrote what was almost said.
Who was I to speak of the dead?
A wife recoiled from truths I gave.
Do you wish to hear
What vows of marriage
Were too weak bear?
For whom would I have written? Who would it please?
Now, staring at your words, so sure, so pure,
That someone might care, or at least endure,
I—safe from war, but not from thought—
Must ask: what is it you truly sought?
Do you want to hear
Of a man who died,
His body torn, his blood the tide
That painted red the truck he saved
His feet found the mine, the sand his grave?
Do you want to hear
The medic’s prayer,
The taste of blood still in the air,
Like pennies clinging to his tongue—
A tale unsung, yet not undone?
I met my Shadow, took his hand,
Together we traversed a filth and dirt land.
The boy who was—dead!, now beast—come and see,
Forged as one by war’s decree.
Stronger, maybe. Time will tell.
A soul recast within a hell.
Cheering as the mortars fly,
Laughing once the shots pass by,
Racing, breathless, through the night,
To give our blood for a brothers life.
Mourning those who would not rise,
In red chem-light's glow 'neath moonless skies.
Is this what you wanted to know?
Perhaps you knew, or thought you did,
Yet still, I offer—
For your innocent,
Well-meant,
Beautifully petty,
Gloriously naive
And honest letters—
Thank you.
Truly.
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