Hours in the front line
leader do not cross
written orders
men who slog
across continents
bullets in their back
packs, rations,
wounds, kills.
This poem comes from an immersive teaching and reading experience I had with U.S. veterans during a four week class I designed called "Writing After War." I love working with vets on writing their stories. The class is therapeutic for them and me, but sometimes their stories roll so hard around my brain they shake me from the inside. I'm not feeling bad or overwhelmed. Just feeling for men who want to be heard on the life they've lived, why they've lived it and how they've survived.
image from pixabay.com and chosen for its surrealism
