july’s sun, so longed for in december,
paints a burning light on his shoulder
that used to be both tender and tough.
by early afternoon, he has had enough,
and quietly withdraws into the woods,
into broken shadows as dim as the closets,
where things stored that wouldn’t be forgotten:
the violin he played in the springtime garden,
as the happiest groom in a tuxedo he loaned,
the sewing machine the new family ever owned,
the volleyball three people played on the beach,
the photo of his sunny boy’s valedictorian speech,
and the phone hung on the wall his mother rang,
when she heard her grandson had died in vietnam.
gaius kong, veteran’s day 2016
一直想写首诗给战场上死去的士兵，但我拒绝提及“国家”、“荣誉”这类词汇，因为对亲人而言，那些词汇可是最傲慢、最赤裸的谎言。
