peace valley elementary school during the vietnam war

I could've been anyone

the three black kids in the whole school at the time
            whom no one else played with at recess—

the girl so embarrassed to exist
            her eyes slid sideways whenever you talked to her,
            or the pretty blonde who liked the smart boys
            and who could afford to sympathize with anyone—

the one who smiled equally at us all,
            the janitor married to the 4th grade teacher
            in bad plaid dresses, greasy gray hair,
            a stooping gait and a bulldozer face—

the 5th grade teacher who loved reading
            after-recess stories to us,
            stroking our damp heads on wood desktops,
            her voice smooth like her fingers,
            her book a lantern held slightly before her—

the tall oaks hemming the field
            that whistled and hissed shrill in the hurricane—

the mouse that bit the boy at Show and Tell
            triggering so much rage he yelled, “You bastard!”
            then ran outside, his clenched-white fist
            flinging it to the asphalt—

the big white splash the mouse made
            in the frothing thundershower
            stunning everyone—

or that boy's friend who raced right after him
            half to stop the killing and half just to get soaked!

or the Texan we teased for being short:
            “Ah thought evrathing frum Texuz wuz BIG!”

the 2nd grade girl only I would like
            because I couldn't see her “cooties”
            and she didn't see my color—

the 2nd grade teacher with a face all smooth,
            her hair all light,
            her voice like singing
            until her navy man returned for her;
            like a flower unstrung from the sun
            she cried and clung ecstatic
            against his unyielding uniform,
            its blue the darkest we ever saw,
            his aura raw like the war—

the kid whose right hand didn't work, “Lefty,”
            who was left out of games till the only other choice
            was Barry the smelly fat kid—

or Barry's sister who dressed “weird,” he said
            with a leer that mired the air
            like germs when he laughed
            “She's a slut.”

or the silence in me then that rose
            like smothering black smoke—

or Barry's brother Don who broke their old dad's leg
            because he did their sister—

or the fish Don caught and cleaned alive
            right before my eyes,
            its heart unable to stop itself
            under his probing switchblade—

or the too-large army surplus clothes Don always wore
            as if a faded jacket could make a man
            of any dropout during the draft—

the creek where as long as daylight held
            we'd re-enact Bismarcks and Titanics
            making drowning cries for plastic disasters,
            then lob bigger rocks—

or Silly Willy who'd hug and kiss us
            at any hockey goal, saying, “They do it on TV!”
            until we yelled in his face, “EWW! Don't be GAY!”

or Will's sister whose hippy boyfriend on the couch
            pushed her panties down in her unzipped cutoffs
            stroking her musky crotch,
            which I'd never seen, let alone smelled....

or the dust-cloud rug by the TV that I stumbled on, crashed in—

or Will's mom then just watching the evening news crying—

or her silver-framed Navy officer photo
            making her weep
            not because he was dead
            but because, “He's gay,” Will confessed,
            “...and I think I am too, like my dad.”
  
the rich kid Larry with well-groomed hair and perfect clothes
            whose mom reclining on the couch
            stroked my head like a cat's
            until, half-hypnotized in my hair,
            her eyes were wet with yearnings
            and she called me her beautiful doll—

I could've been anyone
            if only the cells of the self
            would've let me out,
            if only the war on
            TV continually
            would ever turn off,
            but the time would come
            just once in an eon
            when I could be
            ecstatic as any thing
            beyond its self,
            when I was
            each injury,
            every injuring word,
            all the injured,
            and each sun-struck wave
            of grass blown to bliss,
            each inhale of sky in
            every tremulous body
            losing itself inside an other's,
            all the hiding selves who seek.

This poem appeared first as a prologue to invisible sister (Many Mountains Moving Press, 2004) and was later anthologized in Many Mountains Moving: a literary journal of diverse contemporary voices (2006) and ANTHOLOGY: Visiting Authors, 2008, The Downtown Writer's Center, Syracuse, NY, Ed. Phil Memmer. Free audio of this poem may be found here.