A writing lesson on revision turns into a fieldtrip.
400 students lining the shoulder of a busy country road,
standing like so many bowling pins. Curious. Chatty.
Teachers pace up, then down the line.
“Step back from the road”
Faintly echos from the mouths of weary, worried, adults.

Laughing chatter dissipates. The purple flashing light
rolls slowly past. Orange flagged cars and trucks move by.
One. Then the next. And the next. A solitary procession
honoring in death what it failed to in life.

The mourners, sad weathered faces. Serious, twisted with
grief, despair. Staring straight ahead, staring at us. Staring past us.
Their sadness reaches out, cresting over the line.
A wave of raw feeling calls from each face, each car.
Every face different. Every face the same. They begin to blur,
each fading slowly into the next. Each face, each flag
a harsh reminder of the war we want to forget. The war,
the one we keep at a distance. The one we politicize
and argue about over cups of cold coffee in safe harbors.
Ignorant of its realities; until now.

Each passing car screams out, forcing us to put a face, a real face
on the cost of war. Each face, a silent reminder of what is lost,
and gained. Each car pleads with me, reminding me of
a young swimmer I knew. A man. 18 years old, several years back.
A man. John. Dead in the desert. Dead in Iraq.

Click above to hear an audio version of the poem.

©j.alan 2007