A V-shaped gash cut deeply in the earth Black granite walls that barely can contain The dates of death, no less the dates of birth Each letter marks a place that can remain. Mourn, mourn until your tears are nearly spent Your boys, your sons, will never see this soil Their youth, their blood, a shattered nation lent To jungle war we sanctioned, then recoiled. Descending slowly, shedding words and sound The walls are wings that lift us from despair The names are weights that slam us back to ground No matter which our witness holds repair. I touch your chiseled name, recall that hour, I leave your leather boots, a flag, a flower, Ann Bookman

"On Visiting the Fifty Eight Thousand Two Hundred Sixty Seven" © 2010
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