Thursday, December 18, 2008

The Flames of Transference

"I have only what I remember."
--W.S. Merwin

He is just like you,
re-minds of you.
You: deep voice, dark skin, white tee, blue sweats.
You: love I cannot lose.
He sits and builds model air crafts,
in the day room where television monitors
cover the crass silence accompanying surrender.
You coach football in a home town
where everyone knows everyone--and everyone
prefers it that way.
He went to Afghanistan.
You stayed in North Carolina.
He hears voices.
You bbq with friends.

If he were you,
if you had gone somewhere far away
to provide medical care to countless severed limbs
and racist white men who slurred hate in between
cotton swabs while wearing the American flag,
if you came back on a bus one day,
receiving "dishonorable discharge" status,
leaving your entire unit behind
because schizo affective disorder and PTSD
impaired your once-clear now-clouded mind,
if you looked at me, your chaplain,
in the psych ward, with those eyes,
with his eyes, and I knew it was you underneath--

Babylon would burn.

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