Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Friendly Fire

Friendly Fire

I'd had a long career
as a National Guardsman
--soldier in the war against
ourselves--until that day
Monday, May 4, 1970.

That day I shot Jeffrey Miller
on another grassy knoll in Kent, Ohio.

Graduated JFK High School
Plainview, New York, had transferred
to Kent State from the University
of Michigan after his brother left.
Had left a hole in his life—they’d
shared a birthday for twenty years.

He made friends quickly,
loved his new life. Wrote home
to his mother. Studied hard.

That morning I fought with my wife.

The dispute arose surrounding
the burial site of our only son.
A casualty of that other war,
the one over there, in someone
else's backyard.

Our choices were Arlington or an old
family plot. A hero's funeral or a son.
We come from a long line of
servicemen--cops, firemen, soldiers.

Jeffrey had been late to class.
Used that area to save time, not
knowing  it was under siege.

He threw a can of tear gas back
at me in defense, not defiance.
Neither a revolutionary nor terrorist.
Both of us responding out of fear.
Both caught in the crossfire.


I remain armed only with words,
even the unsayable ones

Worker Bee

Worker Bee

You have been here one month
lying on your back, unburied
leg raised skyward

blackened, mummified
fallen, mid-flight
wings intact— upon

a shroud. Faded, yellow
tablecloth
covered with imitation

black-eyed susans
on the raised platform of a deck
hidden from the sky

under the protection
of the overhang
your life’s work, divine purpose

one drop of honey beside you
fossilized amber

gold gleaming in the sunlight.