The Man He Killed I said I wouldn't BY dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me "Had he and I but met like a bird of prey, the profile of night By some old ancient inn, slanted against morning. I turn We should have sat us down to wet this way—the stone lets me go. Right many a nipperkin! I turn that way—I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial "But ranged as infantry, again, depending on the light And staring face to face, to make a difference. I shot at him as he at me, I go down the 58,022 names, And killed him in his place. half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. "I shot him dead because — I touch the name Andrew Johnson; Because he was my foe, I see the booby trap's white flash. Just so: my foe of course he was; Names shimmer on a woman's blouse That's clear enough; although but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps, Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's Off-hand like — just as I — wings cutting across my stare. Was out of work — had sold his traps — The sky. A plane in the sky. No other reason why. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes "Yes; quaint and curious war is! look through mine. I'm a window. You shoot a fellow down He's lost his right arm You'd treat if met where any bar is, inside the stone. In the black mirror Or help to half-a-crown." a woman’s trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair. Facing It BY B. 1947 My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite.
The Man He Killed BY "Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have sat us down to wet Right many a nipperkin! "But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place. "I shot him dead because — Because he was my foe, Just so: my foe of course he was; That's clear enough; although "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps, Off-hand like — just as I — Was out of work — had sold his traps — No other reason why. "Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down You'd treat if met where any bar is, Or help to half-a-crown." Facing It BY B. 1947 My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn't dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way—the stone lets me go. I turn that way—I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial again, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022 names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap's white flash. Names shimmer on a woman's blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I'm a window. He's lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman’s trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
3_vietnam_war_poems.docx