In Your Navy Uniform, Standing in the Grass

Forty years before you wrote your own end,
before you did your worst in a spoiled field,
before you drew from our swollen eyes
your own greedy tears -- left us searching,
sifting for answers among your sullen gray ash
-- before all this, you posed for a photograph.

On our dusty white window sill, your photograph
now rests. We keep you far away from the end
and near to the others -- the smiling faces now ash
or bone, soil or cypress. Guards and citizens in a field
of ancient stone. But for them, we are not searching
for meaning, clarity or life behind their eyes.

They see us and we return their gaze, but your eyes,
lost in the shadow of your brow, lost to a photograph
and to us -- your eyes, where are they? Searching
for something clean? A great escape? A winning end
to a losing life? Your eyes, they found a lonely field,
an outraged family, a shattered son, a broken body of ash.

Once a soldier, a father. Now 6 lbs. of pointless ash
on the wind, the leaves. We'll never know -- our eyes
and our minds -- never know why. Why that fucking field
instead of our arms? Why a God damn photograph
instead of our home? Who said you could choose your end
and send my father south to join the others already searching

for you? No one said a thing, I suppose. And no searching,
sifting or slamming our fists to the dirt will change ash
to a man -- a Grandfather. So we bury our questions. We end
our self-righteous suffering and look to our dreams for your eyes,
your weathered hands, cracked smile. All that a photograph
can not, will not provide. It's not enough to make that field

disappear. But it is something. It's re-tilling a tainted field,
planting sweet-pea and peony. Sending the cypress searching
for a new place to weep. It's holding your photograph
with both hands, thinking not what could have been -- not of ash,
but of a caring man -- strict and stern yes, with fierce eyes
that crumble. A man who maybe loved too much in the end.

All that remains is a photograph, a memory, the outline of a field
somewhere. And in the end, we're still, all of us, left searching,
sifting through the ash, trying to find your eyes.

-jkh

Waiting

propped at a stop sign
sleepy and shifting in a ceaseless rain
I nod in solemn acceptance
to a dark and docile morning

January claws at my cheeks
bites at my nose
street lamps murmur and hum
casting broad galaxies
upon the shadowy face of the road

twin comets scream
flashing tails of rubber and steel
oil-spill nebulas shiver in their wake
and my breath disappears
swallowed whole by the universe before me

a house, small and gray
comes alive across the street
an explosion of light
we watch, every one of us

the waiting

as an old woman
short hair, faded bathrobe
enters the frame
our window to her world

she runs the tap
carries the kettle to the stove
infuses the fragrant leaves
pours for herself an ashen mug
of the steaming soothing tea
and she looks out at us
this collection of reddened faces
across the road

the waiting

wishing, every one of us
that we stood not here
but sat in there
in her kitchen
at her table

waiting

for our old friend
to pour the tea

-jkh

The Thief

When I saw the boy steal
the Chocolate, I did
not know what to do.

Should I tell?
Like kids tell.

Should I glare?
As if to say,
you're bad.

He was small, pale and whips
of cinnamon hair hung
over his eyes – oily limbs
reaching out for his
freckled nose.

From the corners of these
sheltered eyes he
watched me as I
watched him, and I
pondered his crime.

Ready buddy? Let's go,
a fussy voice called out
from somewhere beyond
the processed meats
copper-top batteries
travel-size medicines

– more telling than asking,
four words to sever
our silent standoff.

If I told the man
about the boy,
would he scold
him in front of everyone?
to teach humility.

Would he march the thief
to the front
to make him apologize?
to teach shame.

Would he beat the boy?

The man and the thief
walked to the door
beyond the door
to an aging, rusting
blue and white car.

On his way out, the thief
turned to me
and smiled.

And so did I.

-jkh

The Tick

In the company of wolves
I wear the Teeth,
the sly grin.

But am I too a wolf?
Eater of the weak,
claimant of the dead?
Not so.

I am but a tick,
sipping steadily from the fount --
the wolf's blood.

And falling down
to the dirt
when I am full.

-jkh