Departure
by Tony Aiello


These desertweeds are me. Please
forgive this, the letter I never
thought to write. In the Sandpile
summer days stay through the year,
though night changes with the season.
But as snow continues to hold in Chicago
and days remain cold without regard,
I send this letter to you, to tell you
the war is over; I return soon.
Those photos you sent, I hung
in my tent, then taped in my HEMTT
when the leadership sent us forward,
then into Iraq. But pulled the pictures
down because your face grew confused
in my head with the dead we moved through,
and your eyes and theirs stared,
though not in the same way;
so though their scorched grins
were not your smile, I pulled down
your image when the difference faded
just the same, as the miles lengthened
to days, as sleep became a dream of driving.
Karen, this is how worlds end:
the desertfloor the sand
the ground on which you and I stand
thrown up, blown rocket engines hurling
ahead of whickering bomblets,
the sunbright sky suddenly heavy
and black with enemy rain until every truck
and unfriendly tank halts holed
as everyone on this incredible march
comes to a shrapnel standstill.
Those who die, die hard.
The lies and threats that brought them here
disappear. Only the weeds remain,
unused and useless. It comes to this: equipment
counted signed for waiting replacement:
them, us, other GI's, our names, all
lives trying to outdrive the night.





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