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