publishing my poem today.
Stranger in a Strange Land
My box of photos,
inherited,
spread over the floor.
Within this collection
sits one lone photo
standing apart from the rest.
He has cornflower hair,
and a petulant lower lip,
but the eyes express
his stature.
Someone whose fate was pure or not.
Whose posture is this or that.
Who was he?
He who has no pulse.
He who has no want.
This picture taken,
in a fixed place
with a shadowed name.
Where was this?
His uniform tells
of his state of grace,
even when peace
was lost and terror
stormed the land.
It speaks to his now idled valor,
displays the past virtue.
It tells of his ancient sacrifice,
and the dust of the valiant.
If you listen, you will hear
the trill and thrill of tears
that sounded as explosions
were hitting the ground,
and the heavy anvil of fame
he and his fellows carried,
though now anonymous.
A memory,
a nations’s backward look.
Within their photos,
they, motionless
now in time and space.
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