I
In the third revolution we were short on guns and boots.
Once we hid in the abandoned emerald mine at the foot of the mountain.
They sought us all night beneath pine trees.
We danced like mad when the Capital fell;
Only later I heard Mama was there. She died in the rubble.
I don’t dance anymore. Why was she there? I can’t understand it.
Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t fought. What good did it ever do anybody, except the arms merchants? They’re the only sure winners of any war.
I fell in love with your great aunt Clarice back then.
She looked good in fatigues. No one knows what they did with her body.
I don’t know.
We lose so much.
I’m an old man.
Listen to me, boy. Don’t do it.
Whatever they told you, it’s not what you think.
Don’t make us go through all of that again.
II
The battle raged over the City for months,
Going out here, reigniting there, like a fire, like a living thing,
Like an animal prowling the valley for deer, wild birds, whatever it could take.
It had us all in its teeth.
Firm resolutions were lost:
Babies became men-huge deformed men with no conscience;
Those who swore not to kill became butchers;
Those who gloried in war hid themselves in their basements.
We all did as we did, when the beast was with us.
There was no peace, no safety within.
III
I do not judge them; they did as they knew. They did their very best; everyone does.
We never know how much weight our brother
Is carrying in that pack he lugs around on his shoulders
And refuses to put down, no matter how heavy it gets or how many times
We explain to him its futility.
He needs it, or thinks he does.
We have our own pack we are loath to live without,
Which costs us a similar price.
So I do not judge them, these generations of brave dead men
Who went into the dark singing
Their songs of courage, women, and war;
Their lit cigarettes and butt-ends,
Their endless jokes about sex and death
And when the fighting would end.
There is no room for judgment here.
© Larry Haworth 2013
