At night I walk alone—

still thinking of gliding over rubbled streets

turning corners where nothing awaits

though belief remains that an enemy

is sitting on the roof top peering down

waiting for my feet to step over the curb

and his finger to detonate the littered bag

in a sewer drain, like it did for the snipers

and Ramon, whose life became a smoke stain

beneath Persian stars and dim lit streets,

against cob walls and decadent alleyways.

At night I grieve and walk with my dog—

who did not let me pierce vein or collapse

from too many pills, as war embodied my

heart. I think of them, the ones

who never said goodbye

who never told their children goodnight

who never kissed their wives

and whose families still cannot say

the word Iraq—

I think to myself alone in the woods—

where God transcends his presence through simple

call and folly of thrush and spotted fawn,

where emotion reveals itself next to a river’s tide

and pool in the pale brown foam drifting next to moss

I think as my wife and children walk before me—

Why did I live?

∞

From the Spring 2014 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 30, No. 2)

© 2014 Jon Turner