"the trouble with history"
My brother writes to say Don’t judge me
and in his words my judgment rests.
We are strangers he and I, refugees
of a forgotten civil war. My own life
has been one long race, far and fast,
from the ruins of those unremarkable battles.
But for him there were no roads,
except ones that arced back or stopped
near the outskirts of that hateful town.
Now, in fresh sobriety, he cares
what I think. I could not have stayed,
drunk or sober. My rare visits
were enough to quell the remains
of any nostalgia I once felt.
The very air was thick and weighted
every breath as if to anchor me
in that foul soil. Even the sky
pressed down upon my shoulders ,
a stern father who meant to be heard.
There I shivered in a fearful wind
and smelled in it the sour perfume
I had almost successfully outrun.
So, my brother, here is my judgment,
brought down to you in unfamiliar arms;
Your survival is a wonder. The scars
you carry must have somehow knit
a shoddy armor for your heart.
But I am no one who matters,
whose kind disposition might pave
your way. I am just a wounded deserter
who cannot stop to look back
or cheer your too frail victory.
© 2008 Dale McLain
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