To the Artist's Page To our home page
To Daniel Green's next piece
Aging Memory Strange, the aging memory dims. Names falter at the tip of tongue, my eyeglasses hide out of sight, “I’m sure I left them here.” Yet, the crashed plane, scattering bursting bombs, I still hear. The blinding flash tore the dark, scarred my memory. Reckless, leaping into the burning wreck to rescue, stink of scorched flesh, gasoline, fear and bile choke my grasping throat. Here’s one. Open mouth emits no scream. The screamer’s dead. Sprawled in grotesque repose on his fiery bed. And five other bombs waiting to explode. I trip on a severed leg, fall into a hideous embrace with a headless youth. Sure as fate, another blast ten feet away, hurled into ungainly flight, I’m deaf, blind, no thinking now, I crawl to newly hurt, shouting, “Get out! Stay out!” In each body I see myself. Now, hair long gray, I sometimes lose my way, ask, “What was my errand. I forgot.” The things of now slip away. Though fifty years have come and gone, each drop of blood, each shuddering gasp, stings and sears the soldier’s reverie.
To the top of this page