A Vietnam Vet Reads His Poetry

Again and again and again . . . we do this.
-moderator of the poetry reading, speaking of war

Back row - me;
two seats down, perspiring black man
holds tightly to his wife's hand.
"It's coming back to me,"
I hear him say.

The poet reads of death
and killing, Vietnam at seventeen,
bodies which never leave
nor are left, carried somewhere inside,
untouchable, unmovable, unburnable -
less than ashes yet bigger, heavier
than they were when they were alive.

I have never been to war.

I look again to the black vet two seats down
whose knitted cap is pulled tight
over kinks of gray-white hair,
the cap black on top and stripes of green,
yellow, and red around his memories.
I watch him, too fearful to show fascination
by turning my head. Slow rocking man,
forward and back, forward and back,
his wife's hand shaking because of his.

The applause dies; people stand
and whisper their way to the door.
I sit watching the black vet
still from the corner of my eye
as he walks up to meet the man
who read his memories back to him.
Poet-vet sits in a chair,
crutch propped beside him;
cap-wearing vet approaches,
faces him, kneels down,
and they exchange quiet words.
They stand and embrace.

I wanted in that hug oh yes, yes, I wanted to hug the black man when he sat two feet away, when he sat and I watched with my corner eye. I wanted to know what he felt wanted to hug him yes, I did, but I knew it would never work, would never do -
I had nothing to offer
but my beating blood and a stranger's face.

At a poetry reading I came to understand
that I could never understand.