Sunday Poetry: Pat Harvey

I Cannot Speak of War


I can only speak of soldiers: captured
in nearly a century of photographs.
Old eyes in young faces who wear
integrity as easily as their crisp
dress blues and browns.

I can speak of my grandfather: the doughboy
learning a bit of the old parlez-vous
with gay mademoiselles baring
frantic smiles and foxholed nights
when the chauchaut rifle was useless.

I can speak of my father: GI Joe following
in the footsteps of Fat Man through the hot
ashes of Nagasaki, where watches stopped,
Geiger counters clicked and wildflowers
bloomed in the nuclear afternoon.

I can speak of my brother: always faithful
to the Corps. The drill instructor of Parris Island, pulling weekend suicide watches - basic
training of grunts into privates – the process
of plucking out the few and the proud.

I can speak of my son: nearly a man the day the towers fell. His eyes were unforgiving, dark and newly old. The next custodian turned to face the incoming storm and I placed his picture on the shelf along with the others.

Pat Harvey